Happiness is a Broken Wand
by Embracing Madness
Summary: Severus Snape just wants a new, peaceful life in Middle Earth, but with a vicious war arising and a new Dark Lord gunning for him, he'll have to fight to get that wish. Magic and battles, familiars and friends. Slytherinesque cunning shall always prevail.
1. Choice Would Have Been a Fine Thing

**Disclaimer: **_Harry Potter and the Lord of the Rings belong to J.K Rowling and J.R.R Tolkien, all the copyrights associated with HP and LOTR belongs to them. Only the ideas contained within this story are the property of the author. No profit is being earned by the writer of this story._

Severus lay in the sticky pool of blood for what felt like eons. The Shrieking Shack was a silent haven, a lonely island in the bitter sea of war that raged and swelled in Hogwarts. And that suited Severus just fine. Opening his eyes was such an unnecessary chore, and on top of all the other shenanigans he had been up to lately, lying there for another couple eons more would be bliss, blood and pain regardless.

Nothing mattered anymore, anyway – no matter who won, there would be no place for him here in the future. He had done his job too well; there could be no trust for the double agent, no respite for the liar, no peace for the murderer. _Albus_, he thought, the familiar beloved name now carrying a taint of grief and bitterness. _Have I done enough for you?_

"Still so angry, Severus?" a voice said with a tired cheerfulness. A voice which Severus thought he'd never hear again. A voice which, now he'd come to think of it, he didn't _want _to hear again. Very much against his will, his eyes popped open – to see Albus in all his glory, sitting in the Headmaster's chair, in the Headmaster's _office_.

"You're finally awake, dear boy!" cried Albus merrily, his previous melancholy dropping away as fast as Severus' wariness rose. _Where am I? _Severus' eyes cataloged the strange paintings on the wall, the horrendous eccentric fripperies which he was _sure _he'd disposed of upon becoming Headmaster, and Albus himself. Who was smiling at him and twinkling at him and generally acting like the benign wizard he had always pretended to be. And oh, dear Merlin, he looked so _real. _And so...so _happy, _with his favorite star-spangled purple robe on and his wrinkled hands..._both _his wrinkled, unblemished hands...spread out in affectionate welcome and his lips curved in a carefree smile which had all but disappeared in the last year of his life. Severus' chest ached as he stared dumbly. And for one crazy moment, it felt as if the war had never happened.

It felt as if Albus had never been murdered by Severus' own hand.

Severus shuddered, and closed his eyes. _No. _That way lay madness. _Don't lie to yourself_. _Never to yourself. _Memories, so many horrific memories were tied to this man, sitting in front of him. _This has to be a hallucination. Or an elaborate hoax. Though there'd be no _point _in putting such effort into a hoax, surely..._

"Or it could be, that we have finally been allowed to reunite in the Afterlife," said Albus gently, reaching out to pull Severus to his feet. _Wait. Why would he have to..._Severus abruptly came to the unpleasant realization that he was kneeling on the ground, in a pose much reminiscent of the one he'd used so many years ago when he first came to beg Albus for deliverance. _Which I will _not _do again. Never, never again._ Severus scowled and immediately rose up, deliberately ignoring the outstretched hands. He could not ignore the brief flash of pain in Albus' eyes, however, nor squelch the answering ache in his heart.

"Indeed, Headmaster," Severus' voice was neutral and gave nothing away. He would not call Albus by his name, not unless he could be sure that it was truly him. _He may be telling the truth, but then again, I can't discount that all this might be a hallucination, or even a new form of the Dark Lord's torture. Why should my Afterlife start in the Headmaster's Office? _There was a symbolism about this which he did not care to investigate. _If only there was a way to prove it one way or another, but in the meantime..._"And I _respectfully_ request that you cease reading my mind."

"Rather impossible, my boy!" Albus' cheerfulness was beginning to grate on Severus _significantly_. "You're not leaving much room to conceal your thoughts, after all. Now Harry chose a wider space to think in, it's quite intriguing to see where he thought his life had begun..."

"Potter was here?" Severus' thoughts stuttered. _A hoax, _remember, _it might all be a hoax! _But his instincts were telling him differently. _Hallucinations are rarely so detailed. And the Dark Lord's torture rarely so subtle. _And if Albus was to be believed, and Potter had come to the Afterlife, then had the Dark Lord..._won?_ Severus' hands trembled. Not that he would be surprised at the brat's incompetency, but surely, after everything he had _done, _though he hadn't really thought that they'd _win _with such an idiotic scheme, but with all that careful planning_, _perhaps they could fall back onto a backup plan, except that who was to say that Severus hadn't overlooked something again, as he always did, perhaps there was something salvageable, he just needed to scout out more information, exploit it to his advantage_..._

"_Severus_!" Severus' body made an abortive jerk, hand flying onto his wand...but he didn't have a wand here. He was in the Headmaster's office. No, not the Headmaster's office, the Afterlife. With Albus, his friend. Friend, not foe. _Friend._ He blinked once, twice. Swallowed back his snarl. Albus was hovering around him, tutting in concern. Friend, not foe. He tamped down his magic. It was worn thin by stress and exhaustion but still, it was so violent, so very, very violent. He didn't need to use it on Albus. Albus was not the enemy. _Friend. _Dead friend, but still. Still a friend_. _Possibly a hoax. A chatty one. Swallowing again, he tried to focus on Albus' prattle.

"Oh, dear boy, I _am _sorry. I wasn't being very clear, was I? Voldemort did _not _win. Perish the thought!" Albus' smile was pacifying, soothing, but held a touch of gleeful triumph. This, more than anything, helped to ground Severus. Nobody could balance caretaker and warrior as well as Albus. Or hoax Albus. Hallucinated Albus. "Severus, please. Everything is _alright_. Harry came, but he chose to go back, you see? Quite a noble boy, our Harry. And now...he has finally defeated Voldemort."

Severus stared. Pressed his lips together tightly. _The Dark Lord has been defeated. _Bitter joy swirled like bile in his throat at the very thought. _Is it real, though? _Albus wouldn't lie about something like this. Was this really Albus, though? His instincts said yes. Definitely. Maybe. Possibly. _Too good to be true. _Abruptly, Severus shuddered. He felt exhausted by the emotional rollercoaster. _Please, let this be real. _He couldn't bear it if it wasn't. He couldn't.

"Oh Severus," Albus' voice was changing, losing some of its joy. His fault. His fault. Stupid to care. "I am sorry. I'm botching this, aren't I? Perhaps I shouldn't have been the first to come to meet you. I had so longed to see you again though, and give you the good news. Will you not trust yourself anymore? There are no lies here, Severus. I'm as real as you are. Everything here is. You sense that, don't you?"

After a brief pause, Severus nodded."Yes." He cleared his throat. His voice was hoarse. Unsteady. _Weak. _This was ridiculous. But yes, Albus was right. He _knew. _This place felt more real than any other place in his lifeThis place, this Afterlife, so stripped naked of veils, showing so freely its truths and contentment and happy news...it was utterly hateful to a man such as he. "What happens now?"

Albus' eyes were soft and loving. It gutted Severus to see that. "You could come with me now, dear boy. Come home, to where we belong. You could find happiness with us. Happiness, and peace."

Severus' lips curled up involuntarily into a sardonic smirk. "Indeed? No Hell in store? No punishment?" _Oh, Albus. He should know better. An eternity of peace while remembering my sins? Impossible. Not to mention, Potter would probably be there, along with Black. Would we have to forget and forgive_ _everything? Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. _

A sigh broke his thoughts, and he jerked at feeling Albus' arms wind around him and squeeze him tight. Severus savored the feeling for a moment...how long had it been since he'd had friendly human contact? Far, far too long...then gently pushed Albus away. When their eyes met, he was even able to dredge up a reasonable facsimile of a smile. "No matter. Let us go."

Albus held back, however. For a long moment, he hesitated. Considered Severus with a measuring look. Finally, he said reluctantly, "There...is an alternative to coming with me, Severus."

Severus blinked."I was unaware that there'd be more choices available." Despite himself, his voice took on a distrustful tinge. For a moment, Albus looked hurt; he rallied himself quickly, however, and gave Severus a resigned smile that made Severus' heart swell with guilt.

"There are always choices, dear boy. In this case, an infinity of them. You may choose to live again, in another world or another time. Reincarnation, of a sort."

Severus pursed his lips. Thought about it for a time. Did he want that? _A new life. One without regrets. Another chance to do things right. Another chance to start anew._

It sounded nice. Promising. Perhaps...?

"It's your decision, dear boy. Just know that we're here for you." Ironically, Albus' sad, sentimental words helped Severus decide. _I do not want to spend the Afterlife with only terrible memories of my humanity. I want more. _"How do I choose, Albus?"

Albus sighed again, suddenly looking old...but loving, still loving. A tiny, forlorn part of Severus was warmed to see this. "The portraits tell all, dear boy. Look your fill, and choose. And if," here his voice took on a hopeful whisper, "just if, you reconsider, dear boy, we can walk out the door now. Together." Severus looked at him, and at the office door. And for a moment, he imagined an ideal place. With Albus. The mentor who he'd loved. And the mentor who he'd killed.

_No, Albus. I can't. I won't._ Severus turned his eyes away forcibly, to scan the paintings. Different scenes, different worlds lay behind each. _Choose one. Choose one. Choose _any.

Impulsively, he jabbed at one peaceful, happy scene. Not much different from the Afterlife he'd imagined, but in reincarnation he'd be free of memories. Free of regrets."This one."

"Are you sure, my boy?"

"Yes."

"Truly, dear boy? There's no hurry." _Yes, there is. I want to leave. This Afterlife is not for me. Not now, not yet. _"We could talk more. Discuss your choices. And you might change yo..."

"_Yes _I'm sure. Albus, _please_._"_ He knew what would happen if he lingered. Albus and his silver tongue would persuade him to do whatever Albus wanted, as always. The storm of memories, suppressed and carefully tucked away from the Dark Lord's invasive mind for so long, rose higher. _Albus' falling. Cold looks. Hateful insults. Lily-green eyes. Crucio, crucio, crucio. Not Lily, please not Lily. Spare her. Spare me. I don't want to remember. Please. _

_"..._Very well, my boy. Live your life. And when you're done...come back to us."

Severus took one last look of Albus. A long look, committing his image to a memory which he would soon lose. _Had he made the right choice? _Yes. Not even in the Afterlife could he escape the horrors. But in a new life, he might. _He had loved him. He had hated him. He could now forget him._ And Severus chose..._life_.


	2. SNAFU

_I'm getting too old for this_, Severus thought hazily as his mind swam back to consciousness. Birds were chirping merrily about him as a cool, gentle breeze raised goosebumps on his aching body – his _nude _aching body. _Oh Merlin. What have I done now to warrant getting left unconscious and naked in the Forbidden Forest? _Carefully, he extended his magic outwards – there was no one within range. Good. Hopefully whatever punishment he had incurred the night before was enough to sate the Dark Lord's sadistic impulses.

The question still remained though – what had happened? He'd been especially careful for the past few days, preparing for...something important, his dazed mind couldn't remember what. _Enough is enough. If the Carrows have attempted to discredit me yet __again __before the Dark Lord, I _**_will_**_ find a way to feed them to the Dementors and bury their soulless bodies alive..._

Opening his eyes, he stared up at the canopy of trees forming a shade over his supine body. _Strange trees. I've never seen the like in the Forbidden Forest. In fact...I've never seen such trees in my life. _His eyes swept around the little clearing, and the Carrows' misdeeds faded before the slow-growing, horrifying conclusion. _This is _**_not _**_the Forbidden Forest._

With a gasp, he jerked up. Uncaring of his nudity, he looked around with a practiced eye at the unfamiliar trees and plants. _These are not natural magical plants._ Gently, he picked a long leaf off of a pungent herb and examined it closely. Its strong sweet fragrance seemed to help clear his dazed mind with ease. _And yet, they are clearly not muggle plants. This one has the potential to have strong magical healing properties. How in the world did I...?_

In retrospect, the herb did more harm than good in clearing his mind. The rush of returning memories fell like a heavy blow onto his body. _Nagini. Green eyes. Albus. Paintings. Albus. The Dark Lord. __**Albus. **_A soft, keening sound escaped his chapped lips before he could stop it. _Albus alive. No, not alive, nevermore alive. Loving old eyes. "Come back to us." Why, Albus, why..._

_No! _With a shudder, he wrenched his thoughts back together. He had died. He had chosen...reincarnation. But this was not what he had expected. His memories were intact, as was his grown body. Feeling along his throat, he found a thick, ropy scar. The half-healed wounds on his torso which he had incurred in the most recent Death Eater meeting was similarly gone – the only sign that they'd ever existed were the silvery scars on his skin.

Something had clearly gone wrong, Merlin only knew what. Severus felt the stirrings of rage and disappointment, but suppressed it with the ease of long practice. _Again, hopes were proven false. Why did I even bother? Damn Albus! If he hadn't been there...if he hadn't shaken me..._Severus swallowed hard and tried to think clearly. _What's done is done. _But now...now, what was he to do? Without a purpose to work towards, without a Dark Lord to defeat or little brats to protect...he felt lost.

Which only served to tell him just how messed-up his life had been in the Wizarding World. Merlin, when had his existence depended upon the wellbeing of others? Suddenly, he was filled with a new resolve. _Whatever happens in this life,_ he decided, _whatever I learn about this land, I **will **steer clear of trouble. I will live for myself, and myself alone._ So there. There was his new goal.

Rising into a crouch unsteadily, he began picking more of the leaves off of the supposed healing herb. With his luck, he was probably going to need it.

* * *

As a Potions Master, Severus knew a lot about tromping through forests in search of plants and animal ingredients. Occasionally, he even enjoyed this particular task – it was a simple, soothing activity that allowed him to stretch his sore muscles after hours spent hunched over simmering cauldrons or tortured by Dark Lords.

_This _forest, however, was nothing like the Forbidden Forest. And he had _never_ attempted to navigate the woods naked and wandless. Without a thick, heavily-spelled robe to protect him from Nature's elements, or a wand to protect him from other unsavory beings, Severus was feeling exceedingly..._apprehensive_. It didn't help that without money or a Hogwarts waiting for him outside the forest, he was probably going to have to camp out_. _As all he knew about camping came from half-remembered memories of Lily's excited garbling about her muggle school's camping trips ("And then we set up tents! And we sang _Who Built the Ark? _and _A Song That Gets on Everybody's Nerves_ around the campfire!"), he doubted his ability to survive more than a day.

His more recent memories of the Golden Trio's camping out while searching for Horcruxes were too horrific to contemplate. If anything, they could be a guide of what _not _to do if he wanted to survive.

_Now, to secure food, shelter and clothing, in that order_, and here Severus paused to viciously curse the rough tree roots poking out and scraping the skin off his bare feet, _Hmm. Make that clothing, food and shelter, with a strong emphasis on clothing, _and he paused once more to extract a large needle-like thorn embedded in his calf, _Forget surviving a day, _and here he was stabbed by a dozen more thorns in uncomfortable areas, _I'll be lucky to survive an hour, _before he _finally _realized the wisdom of keeping away from the deceptively innocent vines creeping along the ground, _Perhaps, it may be more expedient to travel in my Animagus form in the woods. _

_...Oh hell. Must I?_

* * *

Now, Severus truly had no prejudice against Animagus magic. Truly. It was oft-times a useful tool in hiding and spying, after all. Especially since nobody expected him to have an Animagus form like – like _that_. And since he took the form of such a common creature in the woods of Britain, he was easily overlooked whenever evil wizards met together to make evil plans.

No, he had absolutely _no _problems with his Animagus form. He certainly hadn't spent weeks hiding in the dungeons and throwing things at a horribly-amused Albus when he'd finally succeeded in his transformation. He had accepted it all with _maturity_, as it wouldn't affect his interactions with others at all. This was especially true in his new world, where nobody knew anything about him or his past.

Though, if this world had evolved differently from Earth, his creature form might not exist here - Severus felt resigned to potentially be an alien creature running about in an unfamiliar forest. That was a risk he was going to have to take, however, as his Animagus form was much more suited to traveling in the woods than his human form was. So there. He could do this. He could do this just fine. There was nothing wrong with him.

_Though this is definitely one of the times that I truly, truly wish that Lily had made less of an impact on me_, Severus thought with a sigh, as his limbs slimmed down, his body sprouted reddish-brown fur and a stubby tail appeared in his hindquarters. _It's all very touching when I have a doe Patronus that reflects my feelings for her, but for my Animagus form to be a doe as well? At the very least, I should be a __**male **__Animagus_.

_A/N: Ok, I suspect a lot of readers are probably gonna express skepticism as to why Snape is a doe. However, I noticed in Harry Potter Wiki that "All known Animagi in the series take the same form as their Patronus". Also, doe are supposed to be **swift **and **alert **- both of which are prime characteristics of Snape. And granted he doesn't clearly show other prominent deer qualities like being the symbol of **gentleness** (Snape! gentle! Please excuse me while I go into a quiet corner and laugh) and **love**, but I think that it's rather a matter of circumstance than disallows him to have that nice side. I see him as akin to a trapped animal - a doe turned fierce when in danger._


	3. Slytherin doe

Animagi magic, while useful, has its drawbacks. One large disadvantage is that it renders useless any magic the caster may use before and during his transformation into a creature. Severus mourned this fact now, for he'd have dearly loved to cast a Disillusionment Charm upon himself until he could learn more about the new world he was in.

Thus far, the forest had seemed normal – Severus had spotted familiar animals like birds, bees, and to his great relief, deer as well. However, he knew better than to be complacent – for every normal detail that he'd see in the woods, he'd notice something abnormal as well. Take the magical healing herbs he was holding in his mouth, for example. Severus' Potions-loving soul had him itching to sit down somewhere quiet and dissect the herb to see how he could use it.

_Later_, he thought firmly to himself, as he made his way nimbly through the woods. _After I escape this blasted forest, I'll be able to examine it thoroughly. If I'm correct, all I need are a few other animal ingredients and I can ma…DUCK!_

Acting on instinct, Severus just managed to bend his body into a deep crouch before an arrow came thudding into the tree beside him, right where his flank should have been. As it was, the arrow had just managed to graze a bloody furrow through his flesh. Ignoring the slight pain, Severus simultaneously leapt behind a thick tree and wheeled his body around to face the source of the arrow.

His large brown eyes narrowed as he attempted to distinguish his attacker, only to widen in shock as part of the foliage separated from the trees. _A man, wearing green. Damn my color-blind Animagus form. _For all his grousing and indignation at being attacked, however, he couldn't suppress the relief that coursed through his body at the sight of another human. _Looks like this world is pretty similar to my own, after a…Hmm. What's that noise?_ His inexperienced ears had picked up a strange sound. It seemed rather like there was a stampede rushing towards him and the hunter. But a stampede of...what?

Suddenly, a sound arced above the sound of running feet. Severus' eyes, already wide with apprehension, dilated in pure unadulterated terror. For he knew that sound. It was a horrible sound. A sound that heralded every deer's doom.

The baying of hounds.

* * *

If Severus had been still capable of logical thought then, he'd have taken the opportunity to change back into human form and to cast the Disillusionment Charm upon himself. After all, he _was _one of the few strong wizards of his time known to successfully cast wandless magic. Then, he could have quietly stalked the hunter as he traveled out of the forest, and that would be the end of it.

However, that tactic didn't take into account the second largest disadvantage of Animagi magic. Namely, the problem of animal instincts overpowering human intelligence. And this was what Severus was currently facing. In a stressful situation like this, where there could be dozens – _No, hundreds! Thousands!- _of predators after him, power and logic were temporarily shunted aside, as Severus' deer instincts dominated his psyche and screamed at him to _RUN! RUN! RUN!_ So, what could Severus do?

He ran.

* * *

Blomyr cursed as his prey leaped into the underbrush, away from the hounds. "I was aiming for her!" He yelled at the approaching huntsmen.

Guryn roared with laughter and clapped Blomyr on his shoulder. "Aye, no need to get all huffy lad! You'll get more chances in the future."

"_Especially_ if he refrains from wandering off on his own," Owathol said sharply. "Come on, we've wasted precious time trying to find you. Cadilein will _not _be happy if we go home empty-handed."

"I could've bagged that deer if your hounds hadn't scared him away," Blomyr grumbled sulkily, carefully ignoring the fact that his arrow had missed the doe on first try. "Besides, I don't see why we can't hunt separately, we'd make much less noise that way…"

The grizzled hunter scowled and cuffed Blomyr sharply. "Don't be daft, boy. If we left you alone, you'd be eaten up by some wild beastie in a snap. Now stop jabbering and follow those hounds!"

_

* * *

This is _**_not _**_a good day for me. Bitten by Nagini, dying, seeing Albus, bumbling through alien woods, getting chased by mangy mutts and possibly killed…" _Severus listed out his woes as he ran. Fortunately, after the initial panic, logic had reasserted itself in his mind. _Un_fortunately, he couldn't come up with any good plans to escape the hounds at the moment. _Changing back to human form before a group of strangers is unthinkable. Hiding from them is impossible. Merlin, to have arrived at a new world only to be killed on the first day…_

Finally, he was cornered. Chest heaving and flanks quivering, he backed up into a large tree as the slavering, hellish mutts surrounded him. _Five mutts. Three hunters._ He was outnumbered, injured, and completely exhausted. Watching the eldest hunter nock his arrow, while the youngest glared at him vengefully – _am I to apologize for avoiding your shot? Idiot_ – Severus contemplated the possibility of him transforming back into human form. And wandlessly stunning both mutts and hunters before any could react. And Obliviating them all, again wandlessly. His conclusion?

_No. Chance. Of. Success._

With his options laid out before him that way, Severus was feeling fairly…fatalistic. He knew very well that the last, the most logical, the _only_ course of action that he could take would obviously be to change back and suffer the consequences - but his pride rebelled at the thought of giving up one of his most precious secrets, of submitting to the dubious mercy of strangers and begging for his survival.

Maybe Albus was right. Maybe he was meant to die. At least this time, he wasn't dying in the grungy old Shrieking Shack. At least this time, his last image of the world wouldn't be a hated werewolf's den, but instead a beautiful forest, surrounded by birds chirping in their nests and flowers swaying in the wind and bees humming in their beehives and…

_Wait. There are...I can...Oh. Oh. Oh!_

Severus' eyes had widened and his panicked breaths had slowed. Inspiration had struck. His brain worked furiously as his eyes darted around the clearing, considering all the angles to his new plan.

It was reckless.

It was foolish.

It was dangerous.

It...might actually just work.

If deer could smile, the hunters would've fled screaming at Severus' menacing grin.

* * *

"Well, looks like we'll be having fresh venison for dinner tomorrow! Cadilein will be pleased," Guryn grinned. Blomyr scowled at Guryn, then at the deer. Which was…scowling back? Blomyr stared at her in confusion, before shaking his head to clear it. Deer couldn't scowl. That was an even more ridiculous idea than the image of Owathol smiling.

Blomyr's own glower returned full-force as he was reminded of his grievances with the man. Why couldn't Owathol stop belittling him? He wouldn't even let Blomyr shoot a trapped deer – no, Owathol had to do it himself! It was demeaning to be treated like a child – he should just complain to his mother about this and let her deal with it. Oh, he could already imagine what would happen – Owathol would cower, Cadilein would shriek and scream and harangue Owathol into madness. That'd teach Owathol to respect Blomyr! He should do that the minute they returned home…

Lost in his pleasant fantasies, Blomyr nearly didn't notice the doe tensing her legs. Even then, he dismissed it as unimportant, a prey's last struggles for freedom. Where could she go anyway? She was surrounded by hounds from all sides. There was _nowhere _she could move…

Except.

She _could _move_. _

_Upward_.

In one graceful bound, the doe leaped onto the nearest low-hanging branch. Even as the branch cracked and broke away from the tree, the doe was scrambling onto another branch on a further tree. The hounds were barking, Owathol was yelling even as Blomyr's jaw dropped, even as his mind stuttered at the utter _inconceivability _of a…of a…of a _tree-climbing doe!_

"Impossible," breathed Guryn at his side, as quick-thinking Owathol shot at the doe – and _missed _when the creature bent her body at an unimaginable angle to avoid it, and Blomyr should be gloating now because Owathol had _never _missed a shot, but his mind just couldn't get past the fact that the doe was climbing, climbing, and now leaping to the ground and kicking against a small log which came flying towards the hunters and dogs and…_were those **bees **flying out of the log?_

At that point, Blomyr's mind completely shut down, and he _ran._

* * *

"That. Was _incredible._" An hour after the incident, and Guryn was _still _talking about it. Blomyr would have liked to agree, but he was still preoccupied with replaying the memory over and over in his head. Owathol scowled as he wrapped his arms with bandages while walking in quick, angry strides. As he had been actively chasing the doe when she kicked the log at them, he'd been the closest to the log when it split apart, causing the beehive it was housing to break and setting loose the swarm of angry bees. Blomyr was going to treasure _that _memory for all eternity.

"Truly. That. Was _utterly_ incredible. A doe, a simple doe could actually climb. And have an actual plan of escape! That's just so incredible. Was it truly a doe? Or perhaps an astounding woodland goddess in disguise? I just can't believe that she climbed. And she avoided your shot, Owathol! That's just so _incre_..."

"Alright, that's enough!" Owathol was finally pushed to his limit. "It was a doe. An _intelligent _doe, but a doe nonetheless. Now we're going to have to think of our _other _problems."

"What other problems?" Blomyr protested, his mind jarred out of its stupor by Owathol's unpleasant tone. "Don't tell me that you can't stand a couple of bee-stings? Or getting bested by a doe? Aren't you tough enough to…?"

"_Those _aren't the problems I was referring to," said Owathol with chilling dignity. "I was rather, referring to what we should do when Cadilein realizes we haven't caught anything today."

All thoughts of the doe vanished in an instant. Blomyr gulped audibly as he thought of his mother. And pictured her terrible wrath turned upon them. _All_ of them.

Suddenly, thoughts of her in a temper with Owathol didn't seem so funny after all.

* * *

Unnoticed by all three, a shadow had been walking alongside them for some time. The shadow smirked as he listened to the foreign babbling of the idiots and kicked at a bewildered hound. It was good to finally find some guides to lead him out of the forest.


	4. Kindness is Overrated

By the time the hunters had reached the village, Severus had long lost his smugness. He was cold, tired, hungry and just barely resisting the urge to kill the stupid hounds which _would not stop sniffing at him!_ Slamming a foot into the nosiest hound's hindquarters, he froze as, for the umpteenth time, the hunters looked back at the hound's whimpers. Seeing nothing behind them, they turned back and re-engaged in a round of furious whispers and hand signals.

* * *

"There! I'm sure I heard that!" Blomyr exclaimed. Guryn shushed him, glancing uneasily into the gloom that the setting sun cast upon the forest.

"Aye, I heard it too. No one's doubting your ears, laddie."

"But _what is it? _Look at the dogs! I swear that one just flew sideways!"

"Flew? Looked more like it was kicked," Owathol grunted. "Just keep your eyes open and your mouths shut. Might be one of the kids trying to play tricks on us."

"_I _think that it is the trees themselves. They feel...malevolent."

At this, Blomyr looked at Guryn in disbelief. "The trees? What nonsense is that, Guryn? The trees of Lossarnach have always comported themselves properly, and acted like _trees._ "

Guryn shrugged and attempted to adopt a mysterious tone. "Ah, but you've not paid enough attention to the tales of travelers, Blomyr, if you think that trees are always as dull and staid as ours. If we could but see the trees higher up north, if we could but visit the old forests like Lorien, Mirkwood, Fangorn Forest..." Suddenly, his eyes brightened. "Ah, but that's it!"

"Hmm?"

"The doe, remember the clever doe? I wager that it was probably an old forest doe; maybe a _Fangorn _doe! It must have thought to travel out of its home, maybe make its fortune; it must have wandered down south to visit the forests here...indeed, it probably saw us and decided to play a joke on us! It all makes sense now!" He pumped his hand in the air in triumph.

Blomyr stared disbelievingly at the older huntsman's antics. Slowly, he shook his head as he edged away from Guryn. "And people call _me _fanciful," He muttered. Owathol had often complained that Blomyr had an overactive imagination. _Comes from idling around all the time_, he would say, before he'd give Blomyr some horrible chore. Though Blomyr certainly wasn't being fanciful now - there _was _something strange in the forest. Guryn's wild speculations couldn't suppress the sense of dread he felt at seeing his dogs kicked about by invisible feet. Or hearing curses from an invisible mouth. Not to mention the sense of menace that was being exuded by the Whatever-It-Was in waves, especially when they had to go through the more thorny parts of the forest...

All in all, it was with a intense relief that Blomyr finally saw his little cottage come into view. He quickened his pace, eager to get to safety...

Until he spotted his mother standing at the door with a dangerous look on her face. With a sense of impending doom, he watched her glare intensify at the sight of their empty hands. _Out of one fire into the other, _he thought resignedly, and prepared himself to survive the storm of righteous female wrath that Cadilein promptly launched upon the three cowering males.

* * *

_Oh thank Merlin._ Severus could have wept to see the little wooden and thatched houses. Finally, _finally _he could stop following the hunters and their thrice-damned mutts.

He stopped to watch them as they walked further out of the forest, casting many a relieved glance back when it appeared that the invisible entity was no longer following them. Severus couldn't help but sneer at their naiveté, even as he rejoiced at what it could mean. _These men clearly aren't warriors. No guards, no weapons, no dead people in sight. Good._

Studying the village spread out before him, he made a few further observations. The people here were clearly non-magical, and yet had none of the advanced technology that the Muggles in Severus' home world had. That was not a problem – Severus far preferred the traditional appliances that Hogwarts used to the newfangled 'electricity' that Muggleborns were so obsessed about.

What he did worry about, though, as the fact that the huntsmen had spoken in an unfamiliar language. As they'd walked through the forest, Severus had dearly wished that he had the power to cast a wandless Translation Charm and understand the huntsmen's conversation. It truly was a pity that a spell as useful as the Translation Charm was one of the more notoriously complex charms, requiring from the caster a basic knowledge of the unknown language's grammatical syntax and semantics. And so, Severus began to plan his next move - learning the language of the new world.

_Perhaps I could capture one of the villagers and absorb their knowledge?_ If he waited until nightfall, he could subdue one, take him into the woods and Legilimize him - he spared a brief thought of gratitude that Legilimency was less about wand movement and more about mind power. Since they were all off-guard and unwary, he calculated having a much higher chance of success here than he had previously in Stunning and Obliviating three armed hunters set on killing him.

_That brash young hunter looked like he'd be easy prey._ _Or maybe, the woman would be a better candidate?_ Fear weakened natural mental shields, after all, and women were often easier to scare than men. Or perhaps they just seemed easier to scare because they screamed louder? He'd have to remedy that if he kidnapped the woman; he hardly wanted the whole village coming to her defense. Also, screams were annoying. He didn't need to be distracted from his task by the weaknesses of his prey...

Severus' thoughts stuttered.

His _prey?_

His mind, racing with plans and tricks, slowed; it circled with devastating accuracy around the two damning words.

His prey.

He'd been dispassionately judging the value of the villagers like a Death Eater would judge the entertainment factor of Muggles.

He'd been seeing them all as below him.

He'd been seeing them all as _prey_.

His stomach roiled, slowly, sickeningly, as he fought the nearly-overwhelming urge to throw up.

Closing his eyes, Severus took a deep breath, then another.

_I am no longer in danger, _he admonished himself. _I am no longer a Death Eater. These people are magicless. They are defenseless. They are not my enemies._

_They are not prey._

Severus had long been aware of how much more ruthless and driven he was compared to other wizards. In fact, he had capitalized on it, sacrificing morality, friendships and lives throughout the first war. However, that didn't mean that he didn't regret being different. It didn't mean that he didn't recognize how much he'd lost because of his ruthlessness. It didn't mean that he wasn't horrified by how the people he respected compared him with sadistic, despicable individuals like the Lestranges and the Carrows.

_I am not like them, _he told himself fiercely, unconvincingly. _I am ruthless out of necessity, not pleasure. And there is no necessity now to use these Muggles like chattel. There is no necessity to harm them to please the Dark Lord._

Turning away from the village, Severus headed to a nearby clearing that he'd noticed on his way. There would be time tomorrow to make plans. For now, he would eat, rest, and clear his head. For now, he would pretend that there was nothing wrong.

He would pretend that he hadn't thought of kidnapping the village woman.

He would pretend that he hadn't looked at her...and for a moment, seen her as prey.

* * *

Severus wished fervently that he was back in the dungeons. The ground was hard, chilly and wet with dew. Wind howled around the little clearing, raising goose bumps on his bare skin. Severus had to consciously restrain himself from casting some warming charms to make his sleeping place more comfortable. Currently, he was struggling to maintain the Disillusionment Charm and Shield Charm simultaneously. And though he prided himself upon having a larger than average magical core than most wizards, already he could feel the strain this double spell casting was causing to his core.

_I need to make a wand as soon as possible, _Severus thought as he rolled over, attempting to find a soft patch of ground. _It's been so **long **since I was forced to live like a Muggle. Wandmaking might be a difficult challenge, though. I'm fairly certain that there's more to it than stuffing a feather or bone into a hollowed-out branch..._

A loud squawk pierced the air like a knife. Jerking upwards, Severus peered into the gloom, only relaxing when he saw a vague bird-shaped form struggling on the ground. _It's just an animal. Filthy creature must have collided with my Shield Charm. _Frowning, he debated the wisdom of dropping the charm, before deciding to leave it up. _Better that I'm bothered all night by idiotic animals, rather than wake up full of arrows because there's nothing protecting me._

Rolling over again, he attempted to block out the noise made by the bird. Which, he realized in irritation some minutes later, was not _shutting up_. Sitting up, Severus contemplated murder. And dismissed that thought immediately. _I will not start murdering __animals__. I am not yet _**_that _**_psychotic. And yet, how to make that bird stop squawking?_

Heaving a sigh, he got up, strode over to the edge of his Shield, and picked up the bird – the crow, he realized – which was lying just outside the boundary. It promptly squawked even louder and attempted to peck him. Severus remedied this by gripping it by the neck as he often gripped Fawkes, when the phoenix was being _particularly _annoying. "Stop. Struggling."

His deadly tones left no room for argument. The bird peered up at him, and went still.

Looking it over, Severus discovered with chagrin a large cut, glistening with fresh blood. It seemed as if, after slamming into his shield, the bird had caught its wing upon a jagged branch on its fall down. _Idiot bird. _Grimacing, Severus took some of the healing herbs which he still had and rubbed it gently upon the wound. At the very least, it seemed to reduce the crow's pain and soothe it. In fact, Severus realized with a start, the crow was actually falling _asleep_ in his hands_._

_Oh well. At least it's being quiet now._ Gently putting the bird down, Severus lay down near it. And slowly drifted off to sleep as well.

* * *

The flock of birds hovering outside the Shield stared confusedly at where they were _sure _one of their brethren lay wounded. Only the reassuring thoughts the injured bird was sending to them kept them from swooping in and investigating the strangely magical spot, as the injured bird had initially attempted to do. After a silent consultation, they eventually perched on the trees around the clearing and prepared to sleep.

Meanwhile, inside the Shield, the little Craban opened its eyes and stared speculatively at the strange human. If it could have put its instincts into human speech then, it would only have thought two words.

_How...interesting._

_A/N: In case anyone's confused, __**Crebains**_ (singular: **Craban**) _are the spies of Saruman - in the War of the Ring, Saruman sent them out to find Frodo and the Fellowship. _


	5. A Spy's Best Friends

He first felt the silence, a bone-deep deadness of sound which burrowed deep into his body and chilled him to the core. Darkness wrapped around him in a grotesque parody of a loving embrace, dragging him deeper and deeper into the nothingness where he belonged. Or did he belong there?

He was frightened to realize that he didn't know.

Time passed, uncaring of his pleas to stop, to turn back, to save him from the eternity of darkness and coldness and nothingness which spun around him mockingly, gleefully. There was nobody to help him, nobody, nobody there...

Until _it _appeared.

Until _it_ spoke.

_Severus, _it whispered, a warm little beacon of light, so near yet so unattainable. _Severus, my childe. Let go. Fly in the winds of chance, dance in the sands of time. Be free. Severus..._

With a gasp, Severus jerked up. Struggling to breathe under the near crushing weight of fear and loneliness, he took a while to realize where he was. _Breathe._ He dug his fingers into the hard ground, relishing its solidness, its presence. _Breathe. Slowly. Calm. Calm. Just a dream. A blasted nightmare. _He clenched his teeth and dug his fingers into the ground even harder. He wanted, _needed _a dose of Dreamless Sleep, but knew that he had no chance of brewing it here. Severus thought of the possibility that he might forever be denied that little luxury, and felt sick.

Something suddenly moved in the periphery of his sight. Severus twisted his head sharply around, body instantly on guard. Sometime during the night, he'd forced himself to loosen the magical death-grip he'd been struggling to maintain on his protective charms. It had taken awhile, but he had eventually managed to separate common sense from paranoia, to wrench his mind into, not just knowing, but truly _believing_ that he was no longer in the War. Acting like that loathsome Moody here would just drive him right into magical exhaustion.

_No harm in staying alert, though,_ Severus reminded himself firmly, as he realized that he'd been poised to attack...a crow. Which was calmly preening its uninjured wing and staring at the jumpy human out of bright beady eyes. Severus scowled at the bird, feeling vaguely silly. It was ridiculous how tame that bird was. Once he had applied medicine to its wing, it hadn't cawed, hadn't shied away when he moved, hadn't shown any fear _at all._

Come to think of it, though...it was almost _too _tame. Severus narrowed his eyes at it in suspicion.

The bird narrowed its eyes at him in return.

_What the...! _Severus jerked away from it. Birds were certainly not so intelligent as to _mock _people. _Something is...different about this bird. In fact, something is different about __**me**_. He had never cared much about animals outside of their usefulness as potions ingredients. Why had he taken the bird in and healed its wing? Why had he changed?..._What _had changed him?

Carefully, Severus directed a narrow, subtle beam of Legilimency at the bird. Gently, he let his mind skim the surface of the animal's thoughts, looking for inconsistencies.

_Of course, it might help if I knew __what __passes as an inconsistency in a bird, _Severus thought with exasperation. Legilimizing an animal was strongly discouraged, mainly because of the danger in penetrating the minds of creatures with utterly alien thought processes to men. Of course, this increased the hardships of learning Legilimency, as it was illegal to Legilimize Muggles, and no sane wizard would let an amateur practice on _their _mind.

_Correction: no __**consenting**__ wizard, _Severus' lips pinched together sourly, as he attempted to find something, _anything_, which might explain the crow's strange behavior. Memories of how two Slytherin seniors had nearly ripped his mind apart with their bumbling, substandard Legilimency skills kept him distracted from his task. The subsequent memory of his retaliation, however, brought a grim smile to his lips – he had learnt Occlumency and Legilimency as quickly as he could, and turned the tables upon _them_, when they had least expected it.

A croaking caw from the bird brought him back to the present. The crow was fidgeting, showing uneasiness in its thoughts. Which, as far as Severus could tell, was made up of completely normal things like sleeping, eating, and wonder at the big strange being looking at him. And yet, Severus couldn't let go, couldn't shake the strange feeling that something was different about this bird. Shielding his mind tightly, he strengthened the beam of Legilimency and delved deeper, pushed past the crow's surface thoughts...

And involuntarily let out a harsh cry as their minds _clicked_. Agony lanced through his head as his shields crumbled and disappeared. He fought to wrench free, to stop, to release the link that was forming, _strengthening_, even as the crow let out a pained shrieking caw of its own, even as the caws of other crows rang out around the clearing...

When, suddenly, the link – _or, links?_ – snapped fully into place. Through the throbbing pain, Severus vaguely felt, rather than saw, a flock of crows swoop in, hiding their injured comrade from view and surrounding him completely. _Hah, _he thought dizzily, fighting to remain conscious, _I _**_knew _**_there was something odd about the crow._

* * *

Severus was forced to admit that he was beginning to understand why his glare had always seemed so intimidating to schoolchildren. There was something particularly disconcerting about how soulless a pair of pitch black eyes could look. Or, in his case, a whole _flock_ of pitch black eyes.

"So," he finally spoke aloud, as the silence was beginning to unnerve him. If he hadn't been the recipient of the crows' speculation right now, he thought wryly, he might even appreciate how utterly like him they were. He, too, had employed the Silent Strategy and the Black Look before. However, he was too impatient to play their game. "For all intents, you are now my familiars. I believe that you should have gained the ability to comprehend human speech now?"

His words seemed to trigger something within the crows. Suddenly, an onslaught of feeling, of presence, of _crow _seemed to resound within him. _Us_, it said. _Ours. Flock. Comrade. Flock. _Severus gasped as he was overwhelmed by a wealth of knowledge, by memories of forests and waters and flying and eating and nesting and oneness and...

It felt like an eternity before his consciousness returned to the little clearing. Looking at the crows – _no, they called themselves Crebain_ – Severus felt an unfamiliar tightness in his throat. Albus had often spoken of his closeness with Fawkes, of how Fawkes was more than a pet, more than a friend, more than a lover to him. However, all that he'd told Severus had not prepared Severus to feel any of those feelings _himself_. He no longer wondered at why he had cared for the injured Craban. His instincts had guided him well in this case.

"Alright," he said, surprised by how hoarse he sounded. Had he cried out? He hoped not. "Alright. Thank you." The Crebain cawed affirmatively.

* * *

_It's amazing how much animals know about people, _Severus thought reflectively as he walked along the narrow dirt trail. He'd decided to seek out the closest large human city, and the Crebain had immediately clamored to guide him there. This was only one of the many ways in which his familiars had proven useful. Earlier in the morning, they'd helped him filch some clothing from the nearby village. The tunic and shoes he wore now was a far sight more comfortable than the lopsided clothes he had attempted to Transfigure from leaves the night before.

Also, though the Crebain had no concept of grammar and vocabulary, they _did _recognize certain human noises and could imitate human voices convincingly. Severus planned to slowly decipher the strange new language, as well as review all that he'd learnt about their new world. About strange beings like Elves and Dwarves, about strange things like magical rings and dark castles, about terrible people like..._Sauron._

The thought of there being a Dark Lord here brought a soft frown to his face. He was disappointed but unsurprised at the fact that this world wasn't as peaceful as it'd seemed, but that wasn't the main problem here. The fact that his familiars had been well-known spies of the Dark was going to have far-reaching consequences. The Light side would doubtlessly be suspicious if he showed up in their cities and villages with Crebain in tow. Similarly, their old master, Saruman, was likely to investigate their disappearance and be alarmed to find out that a new magic-user had stolen his spies.

All these problems, however, were balanced out by the fact that the little spies had given him priceless information about the war. As a fellow spy, Severus could recognize the importance of all that they'd witnessed, even if he couldn't fully understand yet what was going on.

Glancing to the side, he smiled as his little Crebain guides swooped around playfully. The Craban which he'd healed, in particular, flew about with unconstrained glee. _If I could, I'd apologize to Longbottom. Toying with his familiar had been an unnecessarily cruel act. Though I still maintain that it is the most __**useless **__familiar I have ever seen. Toad, indeed..._

A warning feeling through the link distracted Severus from his thoughts. Looking ahead, he saw a couple of the Crebain scouts flying towards him agitatedly. _Dead monsters_, they sent, filling Severus' mind with the image of large goblin-like creatures. Unlike the goblins he'd been used to, however, these looked rather more vile. _Hurt humans. Dying humans. _Images of groaning men now assaulted him.

Severus stopped. Considered. His first reaction was to avoid the little battlefield. He was _free _now. He had no obligation to help strangers, nor did he feel any inclination to be sickeningly noble or Gryffindorishly heroic. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of asking the Crebain to guide him away from the battlefield, away from civilization, away into the mountains where he could live alone and free...

But no. As much as the idea attracted the fierce loner within Severus, he knew that it was far too unrealistic. Without his magic, he was ill-equipped to live out his days in the wilds. He was better off sticking to his original plan of finding a large city and creating a quiet life for himself there with his little familiars. And in the interests of attracting as little attention to himself as possible, it wouldn't hurt to further observe the people of this world so that he might gain a better understanding of the culture.

Mind made up, Severus continued along the path, drawing closer and closer to where two Rangers had just battled against a group of Orcs.


	6. Identity Theft

Pain exploded in Blomyr's face as he was sent crashing to the ground. When no further attack seemed forthcoming, he looked up warily to see the uninjured Ranger - _Rercyn_, he'd heard the other Ranger call this one – holding back the screaming, frothing Owathol.

"Let me go! That little brat deserves to die! Are you happy now? _Are you happy now?"_

_No. No, I'm not happy, Owathol. I'm sorry. So sorry. I didn't think this would happen. I'm sorry. _Even now, Blomyr couldn't bring himself to say those words aloud to Owathol, no matter how keenly he felt them. Staring at the broken, bleeding bodies of Guryn and Rercyn's partner, Blomyr let Owathol's harsh screams pull him into an unforgiving sea of regret.

"Owathol! Owathol, enough!" Guryn's rasping voice broke through Blomyr's misery. Looking up in shock, Blomyr gasped to see Guryn's eyes open. _He's alive! _Blomyr scrambled to Guryn's side and fell to his knees, words falling out of his mouth in an uncontrollable flow. "Guryn, Guryn, are you alright, please please say you'll be alright, I just wanted to prove I could do it, I swear I didn't think..."

"You wanted to prove yourself by sneaking out in the middle of the night? You wanted to prove yourself by hurtling right into Orc territory? You wanted to _prove yourself a foolish irresponsible glory-seeking brat who gets himself and his partners kil..."_

"Enough, I say!" Guryn's shout was followed by a blood-filled cough, but it managed to silence Owathol. For one dreadful moment, Guryn struggled to inhale; it was only when his breathing evened out again that Blomyr let out his own breath.

With a painful slowness, Guryn said, "It isn't his fault. He's young, and proud, and you and Cadilein just wouldn't let up on scolding him and hurting that pride last night."

He paused again to draw breath; Blomyr wanted to scream to see Guryn defending him even when he was injured. Injured because of Blomyr. Because he'd fought to protect Blomyr, fought to defend a callow, arrogant youth from the blades of Orcs. Blomyr's eyes burned with unshed tears.

_Owathol is right. I was stupid to throw a tantrum and sneak out last night. I was stupid to think I could go hunting deer alone. If the Rangers hadn't been tracking these Orcs, I would have died. _

_ And now...Guryn's going to die instead of me._

* * *

_Merlin, why are those three hunters here __**again**__? _Standing a few feet away, Severus surveyed the scene dispassionately._ The jovial one looks like he's been heavily wounded. Seems like the goblins here are just as warlike as those in the Wizarding World. They can't be very skilled though, if..._Severus did a quick count of the dead goblin bodies..._fourteen were killed by merely two warriors and a trio of inexperienced huntsmen. It's a pity I didn't see the actual fight. Though, I wonder if there are more goblins coming – fourteen makes a very small tribe. If I wait, perhaps I'll get an opportunity to examine them and these men's fighting styles more closely._

Calmly, Severus leaned against the tree, checked to ensure that the protective charms around him were still strong, and prepared to wait. And perhaps, he might have gotten his wish, and observed more about the world he was about to enter for a little while longer, if not for two problems.

The first problem was the hunter's hounds. Or rather, _one _hound in particular. This dog had the dubious privilege of being the recipient of most of Severus' kicks the day before, due to its incredible nosiness. Thus it had quite the grudge against this strange being which it could _smell _was there, but could not see nor even bite.

So, after the whole vicious battle with strange-stinky-monsters and knowing subconsciously that one of its masters was near death, this hound was not feeling particularly kindly towards smelling that strange being within range _again_. With a growl, it charged straight to where Severus was hiding, and leapt – aiming straight for Severus' neck.

With a startled yelp, Severus jerked away – quite forgetting that he had his shields up.

With a croaking caw, two of the Crebain swooped in to protect their master – thus putting themselves within biting range of the hound's jaws.

Almost without thought, Severus simultaneously dropped his shields, made a grab for his familiars and leapt diagonally out from behind the trees – which caused the hound to go crashing headfirst into the bushes.

Rercyn surged up, drawing his sword – only to jerk to a stop when a whole flock of Crebain swooped in to defend the stranger.

This, thus, left them all frozen in a strange tableau – the dead Orcs, the wounded men, the armed Ranger, and, best of all, the tall, thin, evil-looking man cuddling two of the Dark's most hated spies.

* * *

_Oh Merlin. Blasted mutt. _Severus was not inclined to look kindly upon the half-growling, half-whimpering canine. Particularly since it bore a strong resemblance to Black's Animagus form.

Staring warily at the warrior-in-charge, who seemed to be barking out fierce but incomprehensible questions to him, Severus focused upon sending soothing thoughts to his badly frightened familiars. _Escaping these men will be even more difficult than yesterday. Though, it helps that they're all tired and wounded from their fight with those goblins. If I can incapacitate the warrior first, the others should be easy to handle. Now, how to do this without revealing my magic..._

Poor Severus was destined to have all his plans foiled that day, however, for it was at that very moment that his second problem came up.

With a chilling war-cry, the Orc reinforcements launched their attack.

* * *

_I have __**got**_ _to train the Crebain to fight_, Severus thought grumpily after executing yet another hair-raising rescue of his precocious familiars. Spinning around and pouring in more magic to strengthen his Shield Charm, Severus reveled in the surge of adrenaline that sharpened his senses and spun grace into his form. _Truly, how could their old master have neglected their potential in warfare? Their claws and beaks make such wonderful weapons...which brings me to why, why, __**why**__ my Animagus form is a useless blasted doe instead of a crow..._

A quick glance to his left showed the warrior in his full glory, stabbing and swinging his sword about so quickly his arms were a blur. Leaping over a goblin's warhammer and twisting to kick its head in, Severus did what he was best at: multitasking. Or rather, fighting and strategizing simultaneously.

_So, I have a few options here. _

_ One, to leave this area immediately. I truly can't keep hiding forever, though. Now that both goblins and humans have seen my face, I should establish a reputation for myself immediately._

_Two, to cover my tracks by killing them all. Which, again, leads to the problem of when I choose to re-enter polite society. Though, I suppose I **could** keep my identity secret by killing everybody I meet...oh no, no, **no**. Tempting as that sounds, I **really** should let go of that kind of mentality._

_Three, to form an alliance with either side in this little fight. _Severus stared thoughtfully at the goblins, but soon discarded that idea. _They look too stupid to appreciate teaming up with a human. And I should avoid the Dark side until I can secure the Crebain's safety. Oh well, the Light Side it is, then. Blast it all, I suppose I really __**do **__have to be nice to this great brute of a warrior._

Once he'd reached his conclusion, Severus spun into an even faster course of action. Scooping out a fistful of the healing herbs from his pockets, he tossed them at a nearby Craban, which caught them up neatly in its beak. It then carried them over to the wounded men and occupied itself with trying to smear healing herbs over their injuries with its beak and wings.

Meanwhile, Severus darted to where the youngest hunter had been forcibly separated from his comrades. And just in time too, for the clearly inexperienced youth looked to be near collapse from facing the vicious attack of three goblins. Severus solved his predicament by a quick and dangerous twist of his body between the goblins, thus forcing their formation into disarray.

Scooping up a goblin blade and swinging it wildly, Severus motioned for the boy to follow Severus back to where the warrior and the grumpy hunter stood over their injured comrades' bodies. With the four of them presenting a formidable front, the goblins soon retreated. Which allowed Severus to continue with Step Two of his plan – creating a false identity for himself.

* * *

Rercyn didn't know _what _to think of the stranger who'd just appeared out of nowhere. On one hand, he had a flock of Crebain following after him. Which meant that he _must _be on the Dark Lord's Side.

On the other hand, he'd just helped to fight off a score of Orcs. Which meant that he might be a good man, after all. Of course, it didn't help the confusion at all that he couldn't understand the Common Speech. This was a downright suspicious fact indeed.

"I know him," the hunter, Owathol, said suddenly. Startled, Rercyn glanced at him. Owathol's fists were clenched and his eyes burned with suspicion.

"I recognize his voice. He was following us yesterday, sneaking about in the woods. Up to no good, I'd wager. Probably working with the Orcs too." Owathol's eyes were taking on a manic gleam. _He's channeling his __grief into anger_, Rercyn realized, and felt his own sharp sorrow for his partner, Eorel, rise up. Owathol took a menacing step towards the stranger, whose face was contorted into an alarming grimace. "Who are you? Speak up!"

"He might be a foreigner," the younger hunter, Blomyr, spoke up, but in subdued tones. Nevertheless, Owathol still rounded upon him, snarling. "Keep your mouth shut, you little brat! You will _not_ speak a word to me _ever_ again, you hear? You will not..."

* * *

_Blast it all they still look suspicious of me. Honestly, wasn't helping them fight the goblins sufficient proof that I'm trustworthy?_ _I suppose an additional gesture of goodwill is in order. _Severus tried to smile encouragingly at the men, but soon gave up. Judging by their expressions, he really needed to brush up on his How to Look Nice strategy.

_Perhaps posing as a fellow warrior isn't a good idea? I can't really explain my lack of weapons, for one thing. I only possess the clothes on my back and the healing herbs in my pockets...wait. Yes...yes, that's it!_

Slowly, careful to make no sudden movements, Severus took out more of the healing herb from his pockets and knelt besides the wounded men. _Thank Merlin I'd gathered so much of this useful herb. Now, let's see if magic and medicine combined can make me look more likable than my face has so far._

* * *

Half-distracted by Owathol's berating tones, Rercyn snapped to attention when the stranger took a step towards where Eorel lay. Prepared to draw his weapon, Rercyn froze when the stranger took out a familiar-looking herb from his pocket. _Kingsfoil. So he is trying to help after all...?_

Warily, he watched as the stranger rubbed more of the herb onto Eorel's gut wound. His gaze soon grew disbelieving, however, when under his very eyes, Eorel's wounds shrunk...and _healed_.

_Impossible. The full powers of kingsfoil can only be released in the hands of a descendant of Elendil. Could he be...?_

His mind reeled as the stranger repeated the procedure with the dying hunter, Guryn...and it worked yet again. Rercyn exchanged shocked glances with Owathol and Blomyr, trying to determine if he was hallucinating or not. His skepticism had to disappear, though, when Guryn and Eorel began to fidget...and awaken.

"Guryn, Guryn, _Guryn you're alive I don't believe it_...!"

"Ah steady on, you two, let me go_ I won't stay alive if you don't quit hugging me like this_...!"

"...Rercyn? What's going on? What...How..._Who_'s this man, and _why_'re there so many filthy birds around _ahhh stop pecking me you dumb bird_...!" With a glad cry of his own, Rercyn leaped to embrace Eorel, for now putting aside his confusion about the stranger. Who might very well be the heir to Gondor.

_No use speculating about him here. Might as well bring him to Steward Denethor. By the Vala I can't believe Eorel's alive_...! And the clearing rang with their glad laughter.

* * *

Severus smiled smugly to himself as, some time later, he found himself riding upon a warrior's horse. _Looks like Lucius' horse riding lessons paid off, after all._ He urged the steed on, basking in the awed and somewhat frightened gazes of the two warriors. _Healing charms truly are useful __when you're pretending to be a gentle, innocent healer from foreign lands._

If Severus had only known, that his act of using the innocuous healing herbs as a cover for his healing charms had just reeled him into a world of intrigue and Dark Lords, he would've felt much, _much _less smug about his skills at deceit.

_A/N: Just for clarification, __**kingsfoil **(or **athelas**) __is a healing herb. It's **full **powers can only be released in the hands of the king. It helped Aragorn strengthen his claim to the crown. _

_ So, Severus is __**not the king. **__Remember that he had the great good luck to first land in Lossarnach, where athelas grows. Thinking that it was a magical herb, he took a lot of it with him. He **can't** release the kingfoil' full powers, but instead used it as a cover for his healing charms, since he wasn't prepared to show his magical powers to strangers. He has **no **idea that the Rangers now think he's the heir to Gondor. Let the identity confusion ensue!_


	7. Know Thy Victim

Rercyn was painfully grateful to lie back onto the hard ground and close his eyes. It had been a long day for him and his two companions, as they'd been forced to repeatedly defend themselves from various Orc attacks. If Eorel hadn't been watching his back so closely, Rercyn would have been sent to the Halls of Mandos many times over. By the Vala, he didn't think he'd ever seen so many Orcs in his life!

Shifting nearer to the warm fire, Rercyn frowned as he thought of the strange behavior of those loathsome monsters. Now, Rercyn was no expert, but he'd been in enough skirmishes with Orcs to know a few, certain key facts.

Fact one: Orcs aren't picky about their prey. If their targets prove too difficult to kill, they have no qualms about moving on to find easier targets.

Fact two: Orcs normally never attack in groups bigger than four or five, as they're too quarrelsome to live in large tribes.

Fact three: Unless they're forced into it, Orcs prefer to avoid open battle, and instead concentrate upon their specialty: guerrilla warfare.

These three facts, however, had been violently overturned in just one day. The Orcs had attacked them repeatedly, with determination, with a _specific goal in mind. _It went against everything Rercyn knew, and drove home a new fact, one which he'd been aware of, but had never truly appreciated before then - _that_ _the Orcs finally had Sauron back as leader._

_We're up against an army of beings created by Sauron himself. We've become complacent; we see them merely as foul inferior creatures, quarrelsome, weak and divided amongst their own kin. We've forgotten how they were in the days of Sauron's reign; we've forgotten that now that Sauron has risen again, the Orcs have a leader to follow, orders to obey. And today, their orders appear to lie in attacking us – and capturing our potential king. _

Opening his eyes, Rercyn swept his gaze around the little campground they'd made. Across from him, the stranger sat, staring broodingly into the crackling fire. Meanwhile, on the other side of the clearing, Eorel squinted at the stranger with a hostile frown. Unlike Rercyn, Eorel did not trust that man at all..._and with good reason, _Rercyn admitted silently. Aside from that single show of nobleness, the dark stranger had acted more like a suspicious spy than a true king.

_A strange man, wearing ill-fitting clothing and ignorant of the Common Speech, appears out of nowhere to save us. A strange man, who stalked huntsmen in the woods and took Crebain to be his pets, fights like an untrained amateur and yet emerges triumphant from every battle. A strange potential king, with haunted eyes and lips which cannot smile, shows up in our time of need, when Sauron's forces ravage the land. Who in their right mind would trust a man like him?_

And yet, strangely, Rercyn did. Whatever the stranger's identity and motives were, Rercyn felt sure that for now he was their ally.

Because, unlike Eorel, he'd seen how the dark, brooding man had released the full powers of the _athelas, _and so held a measure of awe and gratitude for the man who'd saved Eorel's life. Unlike Eorel, he'd noticed how the stranger carefully guarded their backs whenever the Orcs attacked, and leapt in selflessly to save his little familiars whenever they were in danger. Unlike Eorel, he'd seen a terribly familiar look pass across the stranger's face from time to time – a look which he'd seen upon the faces of fellow Rangers who seen blood and pain and death.

And so Rercyn lay there, listening to the chirping of the crickets and luxuriating in the warmth of the fire, and thought a strange thought that he hadn't dared to share yet with Eorel. _Were he not our potential king, were he not a potential spy, I would call him a fellow warrior. And grieve with him for what his eyes and lips show that he has clearly lost._

* * *

Severus gritted his teeth as he fought not to turn around and berate the two warriors into submission. Merlin, could they _not stop staring at him?_ He wasn't _that _much of an anomaly, was he?

The Craban preening his hair gurgled softly at him, sending him as many peaceful thoughts as it could. Half-distractedly, he reached up to run his fingers through its feathers, eliciting a pleased reaction. _Now, if only humans were that easy to charm_, he thought grumpily.

Silently, though, he had to admit that it was primarily his fault that they were now so suspicious. _If I hadn't acted so paranoid and unfriendly, they might have remained my allies a little while longer._ But Severus couldn't help it. It'd been too long since he crafted his sullen, angry persona for his spy role against the Dark. He'd immersed himself in the role, terrified that the Dark Lord would catch any discrepancies – and in the process, he'd _became _the person he'd pretended to be. The lines had blurred, and he could no longer step in and out of his masks as he could before.

_No masks._ Severus jerked in surprise as a sudden voice sounded in his mind. Blinking, he realized that his flock of Crebain was now sitting around him. _What do you mean? _He sent back.

_No masks. No pretend. _Severus frowned, uncomprehending. The Crebain attempted to explain it further, but no enlightenment on Severus' part seemed forthcoming. Finally, they let out the crow equivalent of a sigh and sent, _We help. Until you understand._

_Help? _Severus parroted, feeling uncommonly stupid. But the crows didn't elaborate. Instead, they repeated again, with an alarming amount of determination, _We help._

Somehow, the glints in their eyes as they 'offered' their help made Severus feel _very_ uneasy.

And then, before Severus' alarmed eyes, his familiars spread their wings and took flight – zooming straight for the Rangers.

* * *

_What the...? _Rercyn had no time to react before Sauron's spies were upon him. _Oh Vala Eorel was right he's Sauron's spy all lies trap trap **trap**..._

It took him a few frozen, panic-stricken moments to realize that they'd seemed more intent upon preening his hair than killing him.

Next to him, Eorel cursed and danced and batted away at them frantically. "Get them away! Get them away!" Staring at his partner's antics, Rercyn caught the eye of a particularly large one swooping about Eorel's head. And had the oddest feeling that it was laughing at them. _Which is impossible, because crows can't laugh. ...Right?_

A sudden noise from the stranger caught their attention. Turning his head, Rercyn saw that the dark man had leapt from his seat and was stalking towards Eorel, gesturing and shouting incomprehensibly. It took awhile, but finally, the Crebain harassing Eorel flew back to their master with a bad grace. The ones preening Rercyn, however, did not budge at all.

Panting from his exertions, Eorel stood glaring at the stranger, who glared right back.

A Craban chose to break their stand off by dropping berries on both their heads. Swearing simultaneously, the two men tilted their head upwards to glare at the birds.

Rercyn tried vainly to suppress his laugh as a cough. He clearly failed, as two heads then swiveled around and pinned him with truly frightening glares.

However, the glares turned confused when Rercyn just smiled innocently and gestured between the two. Confusion soon changed into scandalized expressions when they turned to see identical looks on each other's face. It was followed by a swift about-turn as they tried vainly to pretend that that brief bout of camaraderie had never happened. Their plans were soon foiled, however, when the Crebain decided to yank at their hair.

As pained howls resounded through the clearing, Rercyn smiled and settled back to enjoy the coming show.

* * *

"Why you, you, you little...!" Poor Eorel looked as if he was about to have an apoplexy. Not that it was anything new – Rercyn had long resigned himself to Eorel's excitability – but this time, even Rercyn felt that Eorel was had good reason to feel appalled.

Before his bemused eyes, yet another Craban swooped in and deposited a new gift into Eorel's lap. It then promptly landed amongst the other birds and adopted an innocent pose. The illusion of innocence was slightly marred, however, as Eorel was now cursing fiercely and brushing off yet _another _dead, bloody rat from his clothing.

"Curse you! Curse you and your miserable rats into the darkest deepest depths of...!"

"Eorel. Eorel. Eorel, honestly!" Rercyn was finally forced to shout to get Eorel's attention. "Calm down, it's just rats. Actually, it's rather sweet, in retrospect."

"_Sweet? Which part of dumping rotten animals on me is considered...?"_

"Oh come now, don't exaggerate. They aren't rotting at all, see? The crows probably just killed them last night. They're just showing their affection for you, you know? My cat used to leave dead mice at the doorstep for me too." Rercyn reminisced with a whimsical smile, as Eorel sputtered disbelievingly. Finally, he snarled, "Fine! But if they do that again, I _swear _I'll eviscerate them. Useless birds, as bad as the ones around my house. Always pooping and chirping..." Still muttering, he left to saddle the horses.

Before they left, Rercyn slanted a last look at the birds. A look full of humor, but underlined with warning. _Mischievous tricks only, little ones. Do not venture to harm us. _The birds stared back at the Ranger for a beat or two, and then tilted their heads in acknowledgement. _Message sent – and received. Clever little spies indeed. _Moving to take the lead, Rercyn continued to smile.

_Eorel's a little slower on the uptake, but I know what you're up to, little ones. Getting him to acknowledge you as pesky birds instead of evil spies is a masterful first stroke. _Smile morphing into a huge grin, he urged his steed on. _Thank the Vala that I chose not to show suspicion of your master as obviously as Eorel did, or you'd probably be gracing me with your attentions as well. Let's see how long Eorel can stand against you.

* * *

_

_I wager it'll be a mere one day more at most before your utter surrender, Eorel. Not bad, little birds, not bad at all. _Rercyn coughed gently in a weak attempt to stifle his laughter as he viewed the scene before him. After quite a bit of..._gentle persuasion_...Eorel had shifted from suspicion and fear to mere irritation. Rercyn reckoned this to be an overwhelming victory to the manipulative little Crebain, as irritation was his fellow Ranger's natural state of being.

At that moment, Eorel was trying his valiant best to ignore the birds crowding around him as he heated up their supper over a low campfire. So far, he'd turned a blind eye to how the Crebain's heads twisted to and fro to follow his every movement. He'd faked a deaf ear to how the Crebain crooned and flapped at him whenever he walked close to them. His struggle to disregard the Crebain's existence, though, was slowly failing, as the little birds seemed to have decided to get more..._physical_...in showing their affection.

"Cursed...foul...birds...give me...some space or I _swear_ you'll be the next thing I roast over this fire," Rercyn was _very _impressed by how Eorel managed to infuse so many undertones of death and dismemberment into a few thinly gritted out words. The Crebain, however, seemed hardly daunted, as they crooned even louder and pressed closer to the man. _Possibly a consequence of having our odd king as their master, _Raza reflected. _The birds must have guts of steel to cuddle up to a man as prickly as **him**._

At that, Rercyn couldn't restrain his laughter at all.

He soon had cause to regret it, though, as it drew Eorel's attention...and wrath. Cast a jaundiced eye at the guffawing Ranger, Eorel inquired in a sickeningly sweet tone, "Rercyn. Isn't it time for..._lessons_?"

Rercyn's laughter dried up faster than water spilt in the Brown Lands.

* * *

As Rercyn reluctantly walked over to where the stranger was standing menacingly – _and how **does **he manage to exude menace by just standing? _– the Ranger again noted the various incongruent little details about the man – the ill-fitting but sturdy clothing, the lack of any baggage other than a few handfuls of kingsfoil, the unkempt, greasy hair which was at odds with the his general attitude of fastidiousness, and, most interestingly, the sense of power the man exuded. _This is clearly a man with a strong personality – the personality of a ruler, perhaps? _

Rercyn also didn't fail to note how the stranger had tensed up upon seeing him approaching, nor how his hand clenched instinctively around an imaginary weapon. _Clearly honed battle instincts, and yet, how is it that he fights the Orcs so amateurishly?_ Putting aside that puzzle to contemplate later, he smiled winsomely at the dark man and launched into the thankless task that Eorel had unabashedly foisted upon him, after one too many failed attempts had nearly led to a mini-war between the two hot-tempered men.

_Though, this is one thing which I unfortunately cannot fault Eorel for failing, _Rercyn thought as his own teeth began to grit at facing the dark man's scowling, uncooperative visage. He _did _derive a certain vindictive enjoyment, however, as behind him, his partner's voice soared in outrage as the Crebain pushed him just a little too far. _Teaching the stranger – and we **really** need to give him a name, if he refuses to tell us his own – how to speak Westron would go so much more smoothly if he desisted from picking up – and using – all the swearwords first._


	8. To Trust or Not to Trust

"Argh, how does he _do_ that?" demanded Eorel in exasperation, as he vainly scanned his surroundings. "I swear, he was sitting right there a moment ago!"

Rercyn groaned and turned to look at a nearby Craban in the eye. "Well?" he demanded. He could only sigh in resignation as the Craban flapped its wings in an aggravated manner.

Clearly, it had no idea of where its master had disappeared to either.

Together – _looks like this has turned into a habit_, Rercyn thought tiredly – he and Eorel dismounted from their horses, waited for a helpful Craban to perch upon their shoulders, and set out to search for their erstwhile ally/prisoner/king.

_It's strange, _thought Rercyn reflectively,_ how one man can hold, simultaneously, all three of these roles_. But then, Raza – as Rercyn and Eorel had taken to calling him, since he'd refused to provide his own name – was a very strange man indeed.

Looking back into the past fortnight in which they'd been traveling together, Rercyn could only shake his head in confusion at what little information they'd gleaned from Raza. When the hero-worship had faded – and it had faded fast, mostly because of how** utterly** antisocial and irritable Raza was – suspicion had set in, and Rercyn had to suffer several nights of Eorel berating him for his gullibility.

"Well, he's really...tall. Like King Elendil the Tall. I suppose...it shows that they're related?" Rercyn's sole, weak defense of the glowering Raza a few nights ago had sounded not in the least convincing to either Ranger.

_Who is Raza? Where_ _did he come from? Must he be so annoying? What's his real name? How could he be a king? Can he quit setting his Crebain on us when we wake him up in the morning? Could he be Sauron's spy? Is it safe to bring him into Minas Tirith? Will he stop disappearing like this, _you aggravating man!

The Craban let out a disapproving caw at that, startling Rercyn out of his thoughts. He'd blinked, only just realizing that he'd half-shouted that last sentence aloud, and patted the Craban's feathers to soothe it.

"Sorry, little one. I just wish he'd realize how dangerous it is to continuously wander away! It really isn't a good idea to separate when there's so many Orcs hunting us." By his side, Eorel grunted in agreement, while the Craban cawed again, seemingly mollified.

_Which is yet __**another**__ thing which I'd never think as normal before I met Raza, _Rercyn thought grumpily. What sane Ranger would consort willingly with potential spies of the Dark? However, he couldn't say that he regretted it at all. The little fluffy birds had proved their usefulness to Raza and the Rangers time and time again. They were a comforting source of entertainment and companionship, and had also helped create the uneasy alliance that currently existed between the Rangers and Raza.

_They're so much like their master. One can't help but like them, even when one knows that they're sly and manipulative. _

_I just have to remember that they have their own agenda, though. I can't forget that their loyalty is, first and foremost, to Raza._

* * *

"Damn it! _Damn it you blasted wand why won't you __**work**__?" _In a fit of rage, Severus raised his arm, ready to fling the crudely-made wand away...and lowered it again. Slamming into the pouch where he kept the other failed wands for further examination and experimentation, he could feel only despair at his continued inability to fashion a wand successfully. He'd tried various kinds of woods and cores. He'd tried varying the length, the thickness, the amount of magic he'd used to fuse the core and the wood together. He'd even tried painting runes upon the wand to help it channel magic, but it was all to no avail.

_What __**is**__ the secret to wandmaking? Will I never find it? _Severus keened softly as he imagined the possibility of being forever wandless. He could survive, he could still wield magic, but somehow, _it wasn't the same._ To have to watch his spells so closely, to be forced to conserve his magic...Merlin, he'd never been so near to magical exhaustion in his life!

For months, Severus had been pushing himself, had been straining to keep one step ahead of the game between the Light and the Dark. Nearing the day of his confrontation with the Dark Lord, Severus had been so stressed out he could barely manage to eat and sleep.

It didn't help that once he'd gotten to this strange new world, his paranoia couldn't let him rest well, and had pushed him to constantly be on guard, to protect himself with as many spells as he could wield. And since he'd lost his wand, he'd been forced to do this wandlessly, and sometimes nonverbally.

So, it no longer mattered that he had vast magical reserves or a high magical recovery time. It was maddening to feel himself get weaker by the day and if Severus had a choice, he would never have engaged in so many goblin fights with such strained magic. Merlin he _needed_ his wand, he _needed _it so _badly_...!

Severus stiffened in surprise upon hearing a strange rustling in the trees. In a trice, he'd regained his composure...only to lose it again when he looked up to realize that his little familiars had finally found him and were zipping around in what seemed to be a half-relieved, half-angry frenzy. Severus felt a guilty twinge in his conscience for blocking his link to them. He couldn't help it, though – while he loved his familiars dearly, he still required his space and privacy. He couldn't take being around them so much. Couldn't take them seeing him so weak...

_**Not **__weak__**. **_The sudden, stern voice in his head startled him. Apparently, the Crebain had finally tired of the block Severus had placed on their link and forcibly torn it down. Worry and indignation colored their thoughts. _Hard life, but you survive. You live. Strong._

_No. _Severus sent back at them. _I'm no longer strong. I'm addicted to magic, like those fool purebloods in my old world. I'm caged by my lack of a wand, caged like a prisoner..._

_Caged? __**Caged? **_The sudden fury burning down the link was as unexpected as it was hurtful. Fire raced through veins, fire that he couldn't stop, fueled as it was by the Crebain's wrath against him. Severus fought and failed to choke in his pained cry.

Immediately, the burning disappeared; the agitated Crebain crooned and soothed him. _Sorry, sorry, strong. Uncaged, ours ours flock ours..._

Severus threw his hand up, warding them away. _Yours? _He infused that word with all his bitterness, as he tasted the fresh sense of betrayal. _They __**hurt **__me. _They had no right, _no_ right to do that. He should've known all along that it was too good to last. He should've known, and yet he'd hoped...

_No no sorry accident..._

"Enough." Severus spoke aloud, slamming down on their bond forcibly. _I will not be made weak, not by magic, nor by you. _His voice was chilly as he cast about to change the subject. "We should seek out the warriors. It's odd that they haven't found me yet..." Severus trailed off as he felt an odd, suspicious little twinge from the link. Narrowing his eyes, he reopened the link.

Meekly, the Crebain showed him a strange view of the warriors. It took him just a moment to realize that it was seen from the eyes of the Crebain on the warriors' shoulders...and that they were subtly leading the warriors away from where Severus stood. Baring his teeth, Severus sneered at his little familiars, "Finally thinking to ingratiate yourselves with me? After a whole week of leading them to me whenever I wished to be alone? Is it no longer _for my own good_ that I be a caged prisoner?" As his voice rose into a crescendo, Severus was working up a full head of wrath.

He was unprepared, however, for what followed.

The Crebain had been getting increasingly distressed. His last words, shouted out so viciously, seemed to galvanize them into action. In an explosion of feathers and wings, they descended upon Severus, crooning and preening his hair and desperately showing regret. _Sorry sorry so sorry accident_ _just memories no cages no cages..._

Against his will, Severus felt his rage crumble before their pitiful looks. Sighing, he ran his fingers through their feathers. "I...apologize. That was unwarranted. I know that you're worried about the goblins attacking me."

_Sorry sorry so sorry accident_ _just memories no cages no cages..._

Severus blinked. "No cages?" That worked the Crebains up even more. _No cages no cages nocagesnocagescagescages..._

"Hush now, it's alright," Awkwardly, Severus tried to soothe them but they didn't listen, caught up in a strange horror. At a loss, Severus finally reverted back to mindspeak. _Shh, shh, it's alright. Talk to me. That's why you sent the warriors away, right? You wanted to talk, I promise I'll listen, I won't lose my temper again. Be calm, be calm._

Gradually, the Crebain quieted down, though their eyes still held a terrible vestige of fear. Their mental voice, when they finally spoke, was faint, almost a whisper in Severus' mind. _Bad memories. Cages hurt. Help?_

The last word, whispered so plaintively, brought a strange ache to Severus' heart. Slowly, he nodded. _What should I do?_

_Trust us. Open mind. _Their eyes pleaded, even as Severus involuntarily jerked back in denial of their request. _No shields. __Open mind. _Severus began to shake his head, but froze at their last, heartfelt word. _Please._

_Please. __Severus, please. _Albus had asked him _please _too. But Albus had asked for something much more manageable than _dropping his shields. _He had never done that, not for anyone, not for anything. Even when the link was forged between himself and the Crebain, it hadn't been agreed to on his part; it had been forced to form by his magic. And though he loved the Crebain, though he constantly spoke to them over the link, he hadn't ever dropped his shields.

And yet, they were his _familiars. _If he couldn't trust them, who could he trust? He hadn't trusted Lily with his true, loving feelings for her, and it left him alone and friendless_. _He hadn't trusted any of his Hogwarts colleagues with his secrets, and it left him reviled and ignored. He hadn't trusted the warriors with even his name, and so now, they looked upon him with suspicion and anger.

Could he deny his trust to his familiars too?

His familiars. His helpers.

His friends.

Closing his eyes, Severus breathed in sharply. And finally spoke one word.

"Alright."

He dropped his shields, welcoming in the flood of memories from the Crebain.

_A/N: For further clarification, the Rangers chose the name __**Raza **__for Severus because Raza is Westron for "**stranger**".  
_

_Also, quite a few readers seem worried about Severus' lack of a wand. No worries, I've got an idea for that which will come in a few chapters. Love all the creative suggestions though__!_


	9. Wizard vs wizard

_Blood pain fear fear fear magic magic hurts pain..._Swearing viciously, Severus fought to claw his way out of the morass of fear that lay in the Crebain's memories. _Merlin, how could they have been hiding such pain? _Their undisciplined, animalistic minds were difficult to navigate – only the fact that they were Severus' familiars allowed Severus to eventually steady the flow of memories and start sorting them out.

And when he finally realized what he was seeing...Severus felt pain all over again. This time, however, it was pain _for_ his familiars.

_Baby crows, ignorant and inquisitive, until Sauron's forces caged them. Baby crows, taken by Sauron, crying with pain behind unyielding bars. Little crows, caged from freedom, molded and twisted to fit Sauron's goals. Little crows, no longer just normal crows, cursed with the name of Crebain. Little Crebain, now spurned by own kin, gifted to Saruman and forced into servitude. Forced to spy, forced to breed, forced to die knowing that their young would be similarly enslaved and exploited._

"Merlin," Severus whispered, swallowing down his bile. _No wonder they're so intelligent. They aren't normal crows at all. They're the products of a Dark Lord's experiments._ Gently, he caressed their feathers, trying to reassure them of his affection. Trying to reassure them that his hatred, _all_ his hatred was for their creator. _Allying with the Dark is no longer an option. I __**will **__take vengeance upon the Dark Lord. That is a promise to you, my Crebain._

But, the Crebain had more to show him. As he sifted through their more recent memories, Severus grew alarmed by what he saw. _The Crebain hadn't bumped into my shield accidentally. They'd been sent to investigate when Saruman felt a burst of power emanating from that area – Oh Merlin he must have been sensing whatever magic which was powering my arrival to this world. No wonder we've had to ward off so many Orc attacks – he must have notified Sauron. Or perhaps Sauron sensed it too – damn it __**exactly how many people know I'm here?**_

Standing up, Severus began to pace around the clearing, thinking hard. _I've attracted the attention of a Dark Lord with great magic and even greater armies. Now that they're aware of me, I can no longer bank on using the element of surprise. However, all that they know of me is probably secondhand knowledge – and now that their spies are gone, it should be some time before they can build up another spy network again..._

_No. _The Crebain's thoughts, filled with sadness, broke through his planning. _No. Not gone._ Gently, they offered up to him their last, pertinent memories. And Severus' heart burned, burned as he saw dozens more flocks of crows caged in the dark tower they called _nest_, burned as he watched them periodically sent out, to fly free for a few, precious moments to spy, only to return to their prison when their task was done.

And finally, he realized why they'd shared their memories with him that day.

Slowly, he knelt down to where the Crebain had huddled together for comfort. "I see." His voice was quiet, even as he steeled himself, knowing instinctively that whatever he was about to do would be...distasteful. But then, when had that ever deterred him? "What would you have me do?"

The Crebain gave him a long, measuring look. One full of fear, but tinged with faint hope. _They'd been testing me all this while. Probably since the day we first met, _Severus suddenly realized, but with a surprising lack of anger. And why should he be angry? For a task involving their kin, they were right to be cautious. If their chosen savior was to fail them, it would only lead to punishment and pain – two things which he was all too familiar with, when his own savior had opted not to free him.

_Then again, if Albus had not offered me the path of redemption instead, I would not be who I am now. When all is said and done, I...am grateful, Albus. However, the Crebain are not me. They never chose to be enslaved to the Dark. I will not leave them to Sauron._

Again, he repeated, but with stronger determination, "What would you have me do?"

And finally, finally, the Crebain seemed to reach a decision. Nestling up to Severus, they showed him what they wanted him to do. And Severus...began to plan.

* * *

Saruman's back screeched in protest as he straightened up, finally done with viewing the memories of the Crebain sent to spy on Gandalf. Wincing, his temper rose as he thought of the scene he'd just been watching – Gandalf drinking with the Hobbits yet _again. _It was positively _undignified, _not to mention irresponsible, for Gandalf to shirk his duties once more. _I would never act so foolishly, _he thought with a self-righteous anger, _I would never waste so much of my time on inferior beings like Hobbits!_

He had to wonder, though – did Gandalf have an ulterior motive for all his shenanigans? Did he have a new duty that the Vala had kept secret from Saruman? Even now, Gandalf might be gloating, thinking that he'd fooled Saruman. The old Maia moved unconsciously to the memories again, longing to replay them and analyze exactly what Gandalf was up to. But no, this might be all within Gandalf's plot to take Saruman's place – to make him unproductive, to tempt him into neglecting his own duties.

Saruman's paranoia rose with that thought. Spinning around, he stalked to his study in a fine temper. He barely noticed the little Craban patiently waiting at the study window as he entered and flung himself into his chair, so preoccupied was he with his rage. _Lying to me! Making a fool of me! I'll show you all. I'll be the first to find the Ring and defeat Sauron. I'll show you all that I'm wiser and more capable than Gandalf!_

Eventually, Saruman began to calm down. Turning his head, he beckoned at the Craban with a peremptory finger. The little animal flew over meekly. Perhaps it was anxious not to set Saruman off again? Saruman snorted at the foolish thought - it was just a dumb, inferior bird, incapable of analyzing actions that deeply. What would it know about anything? The Crebain weren't even loyal servants – why, just the other day an entire flock of them had disappeared!

Saruman's annoyance at that memory caused him to be exceptionally vicious when extracting the Craban's own memories. Oblivious to the little bird's pain, he continued to rage. _I should never have accepted these birds from Sauron. He's probably gloating, thinking that he's ingratiated himself to me by presenting me with his spoiled goods. Pah! I wager that the strange magical explosion in Lossarnach has something to do with him. That useless flock I'd sent out to investigate is probably back to serving Sauron again. I should show him that he can't fool me! I should..._

What Saruman was planning to do would never be known, for it was at that moment that Severus chose to launch his mental attack on the Crebain's slave bonds.

* * *

_Damn and blast. I __**loathe **__charging into a situation so unprepared. This is so __**utterly**__ Gryffindorish__**. **_However, Severus had very little choice. He'd already waited a few days before acting upon his plan, as he was determined not to go into the fight magically exhausted. Waiting further would be counterproductive, as every day wasted heightened the chances of the Crebain's old master using his remaining Crebain against Severus.

So, in the period leading up to his attack, he'd made his preparations _very_ carefully. Earlier that day, he'd began to feign illness, forcing the warriors to stop their travels much earlier than they usually did. Using hand signals and some simple foreign words that he'd already learnt from the warriors, he communicated his wish to not be disturbed that night, in order to facilitate his recovery. The warriors, already very much used to his antisocial behavior, had agreed thoughtlessly.

Lying down with his back to the warriors, Severus thought back to all that he'd learnt so far about the slave links. Seemingly, Sauron had, in an attempt to make the Crebain even more efficient spies, once tried to create links _between _the Crebain themselves. The intended effect would be that a Craban, after gathering whatever information that Sauron wanted, wouldn't need to waste time flying back to Sauron before disclosing it to him. Instead, it could just send its knowledge via the links to a Craban near Sauron, thus improving the information transfer rate tremendously.

To Sauron's great disappointment, however, the links he created were always warped and useless. Mostly, they were weak and flickering, and so, utterly unsuitable for information transfer. And in certain special cases, the links were instead too strong, leading to the creation of tightly-knit flocks like the one Severus had. Such flocks were so tightly bonded that they could never function when far from each other. This had been the reason why Severus had gained the whole flock as his familiars – their minds were too interconnected by Sauron's experiments, and so, when Severus had formed a link with _one_ Craban, it had mutated into a link with _all _of them.

The warped links, however, had frustrated Sauron's ambition to create a wide-ranging spy network. Eventually, he'd deemed the Crebain as failed experiments and gifted them to Saruman.

_Which is his loss, and my gain. Truly an oversight on your part, Dark Lord._ Severus smiled grimly at the Crebain, which crooned softly back. The links which Sauron had thought so useless was now going to be Severus' ticket into success.

Beady black eyes watched him in anticipation, as he closed his eyes, and slowly immersed his mind into their link. And through it, he searched – and eventually found the weak, flickering link that held them bound to the rest of their brethren. From there, it was ridiculously easy to search further, uncover the slave bonds that held them subservient to Saruman – and to finally find the thick bond which was Saruman's link to them all.

_First goal accomplished. Good. Now, down to the hard work._ Taking a deep breath, Severus began to slowly, carefully, chip away at Saruman's bond.

And of course, _of course, _that was the moment in which his plans went up in flames.

* * *

_Ahhhh! What...__**what**__...? _Saruman was nearly blinded by the agony coursing through his mind. _By...the...Vala...something's...ripping out of my mind...Oh Vala...it __**hurts**__...what's happening...?_

Digging his fingers into his scalp in a subconscious attempt to scrape the pain out, Saruman tried to breathe and think calmly. _Attack...someone's...attacking me...Gandalf? He couldn't...have known yet...focus...__**focus**__...throw him...out...hurt __**him**__..._

* * *

Severus gasped silently as pain pulsed through his link with the Crebain. _Damn. He detected me so quickly? That slave bond must be more entrenched than I thought. _Clenching his teeth, Severus ignored the pain and changed his strategy into a full-frontal assault. Mentally setting up a shield to protect the Crebain still bonded to Saruman, he began to hack away at the slave bond with great enthusiasm.

This had the delightful effect of lessening the pain he had to contend with, as Saruman became less concerned about killing his attackers and more concerned with whether his head was going to explode. Smirking smugly, Severus focused back on his task.

Severus never realized, as he waged his little battle against the bond, that a very different, but equally dangerous battle was starting up near his body too.


	10. Reflections and Realizations

_A/N: Alright, now some people have told me that the Crebain were gifted to Saruman by Radagast the Brown, not Sauron. However, after some research, I found that this is speculation – Tolkien didn't go into much detail about how the Crebain came to be. So, I'm still following canon as much as possible. _

Shuffling closer to the campfire's warmth, Rercyn groaned softly as he contemplated the message he wanted to send to his fellow Rangers. On the one hand, he balked at the thought of putting too much information into a message which might be easily intercepted by the Dark. It was clear, from the number of Orcs they'd been forced to battle against over the past fortnight, that the Dark was intentionally pursuing their little group, and that it'd most likely to do with Raza. Rercyn was loathe to provide them with any more valuable knowledge than they'd already possessed.

On the other hand, people _needed _to know of Raza. In the unhappy possibility that the Orcs prevailed in killing the Rangers and carrying off Raza, the Steward would have to, at the very least, know the physical description of the king they would need to rescue. The one message that Rercyn had dared to send at the start of their trip, saying only "Urgent! Guard important man!" was hardly enough to explain the current mess they were in.

After scraping and rewriting the message for the seventh time, Rercyn gave it up as a lost cause. _A cause to be soon foisted upon Eorel. _Trying – and failing – to stifle an exhausted yawn, he watched as Eorel restlessly prowled around the boundaries of their camp, looking positively dead on his feet. Rercyn couldn't blame him; the past few days of relentlessly unending Orc fights had taken a toll upon all of them. Truly, it was a Vala-blessed miracle that they'd escaped uninjured from every skirmish so far. It seemed like their luck had given out though – barely a few day's travel away from Minas Tirith, Raza had finally succumbed to the stress and fallen ill.

Glancing over at Raza, he frowned to see the thin man lying in the exact same position as he'd been some time ago. How odd. Raza never stayed still while asleep – Rercyn had often watched him as he thrashed about and muttered incomprehensibly, caught in the grips of night terrors which he'd never divulge to the Rangers. Perhaps the illness was affecting him more than Rercyn had thought? Rercyn certainly hoped that wasn't the case – they were only three to four days travel away from the nearest guard posts. The sooner they were within sight of fellow Rangers, the safer they'd be from the thrice-accursed Orcs which persisted in harassing them so much.

Though, that was _another_ odd matter. In the past two days, the number of Orc attacks had fell dramatically, to the point where they hadn't faced a single Orc in the past two days. Rercyn knew better than to drop his guard, though – logically, the Orc attacks should have _increased_ in intensity, as the nearer the trio came to human territories and allies, the smaller the chances the Orcs had of capturing Raza. The Orcs couldn't possibly be so stupid as to attack them near the city zone...right?

Rercyn ignored the nagging doubts which whispered that he might be wrong.

Scanning the trees around him, he frowned as his eyes failed to penetrate the darkness. _Tonight, of all nights, just __**has**__ to be a moonless night, doesn't it? _He thought in exasperation, and called out softly, "Eorel, stop your pacing. You'll wear yourself out unnecessarily."

"What? Don't be ridiculous," Eorel grunted, careful to keep his voice low too. He'd learnt his lesson earlier on, when he'd called out for Raza to get his dinner and got a faceful of angry Crebain for an answer. It seemed like Raza's illness had brought out the Crebain's mothering side – they wouldn't allow anything to wake him at all. "_I'm_ the one on guard duty. _You're _the one wearing yourself out by fretting over Raza like a mother hen. Honestly, of all times to get ill, why did he have to do it _now_?"

"Oh come now, he's not doing it on purpose."

"We don't know that."

"You're being ridiculous, Eorel. Please, just sit down for a bit? You need your strength if any Orcs choose to attack us tonight."

"And if they do, it'll be because of this man and his supposed 'illness'! I said it once and I'll say it again, Rercyn – that man. Is not to be trusted!"

Abruptly, Rercyn's patience snapped. It was too much – the Orcs, the exhaustion, the deep-seated, unspoken terror that he'd be the one who failed to protect their king – Eorel's paranoia was just the last straw. Pounding a fist against the ground and disregarding the Crebain's warning cries, he hissed back furiously, "Stop it, Eorel! I told you, it's not for us to decide! Once Steward Denethor sees him and determines if he's the king, _then_..."

Eorel, never one to keep his temper well, snarled back in turn. "By the Vala just _listen _to yourself speak! Look at him. He is not the king. He _cannot_ be the king. We're courting danger by bringing him to Minas Tirith!"

"What do _you _propose to do, Eorel? I admit, he's nothing like how I imagined our king to be. But he _saved _you, and you saw the methods that he used!You know the stories and the prophecies as well as I do, Eorel – only the king has such healing powers, only the king_ can unleash the full powers of kingsfoil!_ What other proof do you need that Raza is not what he seems? What other feasible course of action can we take right now? Or do you want to abandon him to the Orcs? That's tantamount to _treason_!"

Rercyn's last, passionate words seemed to echo through the trees. Eorel, already opening his mouth to respond, snapped it shut again. Staring at Rercyn, the fight drained out of his body. Slowly, he shook his head. "Treason. You've already decided that he's the king, haven't you?" His voice was quiet, resigned, but there was still something in it which made Rercyn respond defensively, albeit more calmly.

"Of course not. As I said, it's up to the Steward to decide."

"And what if he is? What will happen? How will he rule?"

Eorel's abrupt question took Rercyn by surprise. Blinking, he stated the obvious. "Well, he'd be coronated. And for all his snark, he seems like a decent man, though I don't know him well enough to predict how he'd rule..."

"And that's just it. There lies the crux of our problem. We. Don't. Know." Sighing, Eorel ran a hand through his dirt-spattered hair wearily. "Look, let's suppose for one instant, that the Steward decides that this _stranger_, who can't speak our language, can't fight worth a damn, and has a passel of Crebain around him is our king. Can you imagine the mess that'll happen? Our arguments are mere pale imitations to how people will react. And do you see Raza being able to quell that kind of problems? He _may_ be a good man, but not even you can claim that he knows anything about diplomacy."

"He can be taught all that! The blood of our greatest rulers runs through his veins. He'd learn with time..."

"Time which we _don't have._ He'd make a mess of Gondorian politics for sure, and would you be willing to weaken Gondor just for the slim chance that he'll _learn with time_?"

"It's not just a slim chance though, it's a certainty. He'll bring us into glory, he'll revive our power, and if trouble has to come before our victory, it'll be well worth it! It'll..."

"Rercyn, _please_. _Listen _to yourself. I'll be the first to admit that I'm biased against him, but only so much as you're biased _towards _him! Many people don't believe the prophecy any longer, and for good reason; who knows if the original words have been preserved in entirety over all these centuries? It may be nothing more now than a bunch of old wives tales, and Raza may be nothing more than a particularly talented healer. And if that's the case, then we're making a big mistake, and Gondor may_ fall." _Rercyn jerked back at that.

Staring at Rercyn pleadingly, Eorel went on in a gentler tone. "I'm going along with this insane plan of yours, to introduce him to our people because it'd be worse to just hide him, but this isn't going to end well. You're a Ranger of Ithilien, Rercyn, and you know as well as I do that people who've been pinning their hopes on a heroic king are going to be disillusioned, and Raza's going to have to bear that burden of their disillusionment. It's just too much. Unfair, too, to treat him like the king. He clearly doesn't know what's going on. Nobody, _nobody_, is going to be happy about this."

There was a silence. Swallowing hard, Rercyn turned away abruptly. For he knew what Eorel'd said to be truth. _This_. _This is why Eorel's my partner._ Eorel was brash and impulsive, but his flashes of odd insights balanced out Rercyn's calm, analytical judgments well. And in this case...Rercyn's judgment had failed him badly, to the point where Eorel had to pull him back from his desperate delusions. _I've grown up with tales of our prophesied king, of how he would come one day and bring peace and prosperity to our land; is it so surprising that I wanted so badly to see that turn to reality? _

The only sound for a long while after Eorel's words was the gentle crackle of the fire.


	11. Warring on Two Fronts

Rercyn couldn't pinpoint the first moment they felt it, but he did know the instant when they came to the simultaneous realization that something was wrong.

There was coldness.

There was darkness.

And there was the first stirring of a terrible, unnatural fear.

Tensing up, the Rangers rose to their feet, scanning their surroundings. It was quiet..._too_ quiet. The gentle rustling of the leaves in the breeze, the constant chirping of the crickets, the mournful hoots of the night owls...they'd all melted into the cloying blackness of the night. Rercyn's hair prickled as he strained his senses to detect something, _anything_, beyond the faint warmth and light of the campfire. But there was nothing to detect.

Until the Crebain released fearful, screaming caws.

Whipping around, Rercyn saw a couple of the little birds speeding back to their campsite, crying out in warning. Their frantically fluttering wings seemed to move in tandem to the quickening beat of Rercyn's heart. Finally reaching the Rangers, they swooped and spun around them in a dizzying circle, creating a clear message that screamed out _Danger! Danger!_

Rercyn flicked a glance at Eorel. Eorel nodded grimly back.

They exploded into action.

Running towards the horses, Rercyn took a moment to note their widened eyes and restless stamping, and cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. Untying them from the tree, he pulled them around to face the road, intending to leave as soon as Eorel woke Raza. _Hurry hurry hurry..._Something in his gut told him that he shouldn't wait to stamp out the fire or fold up the tents, they needed to go _now and what was taking Eorel and Raza so long?_ Turning his head, ready to lambast the two into moving faster, he stopped short upon Eorel's anxious cry.

"Rercyn! Raza's _not waking up_!"

* * *

The thick, treelike bond with its numerous little tendrils leading to each Crebain stretched out before Severus. This rescue was turning out to be more difficult to than he anticipated. So far, he _thought _that he'd managed to liberate a few new, young flocks, but bonds connecting the older, more enslaved Crebain to their master were barely bruised. Severus' consciousness radiated discontent at this, but as he was leery of pouring in any more of his power and risk magical exhaustion, he decided to just change the angle of his attack. Hacking away with renewed enthusiasm, he absorbed himself in the difficult task of destroying a strong bond.

Thus, he could hardly be blamed for the irritation he felt when a jarring sensation abruptly emerged in the link connecting himself to his physical body. _Blasted Rangers. Did I not specify clearly enough to them to not bother me? _Dismissing the disturbance, Severus focused back upon his current task, and felt a flare of satisfaction as the tightly-spun tendril grudgingly broke and dissolved. _One more down. Dozens of others to go._

* * *

"Will you stop that, you _idiotic _birds! He needs to wake up!" The Crebain cawed and fluttered in agitation, seemingly indecisive about whether to attack or aid Eorel. Rercyn's mind worked frantically to figure out what was going on. _Too ill to move? Or even worse...somehow rendered unconscious? But nothing came near him while he was sleeping...how could this happen?_ The panic gripping him made it harder to think, but finally, he made a decision and hissed out,

"Look, never mind waking him! Come on, come on, get him over my horse, we need to _go!_" The horses shied away a little as Eorel carried Raza over, but Rercyn managed to calm his steed long enough for Eorel to sling Raza over its back. Swinging themselves onto their horses, the Rangers started their escape.

They were brought up short, however, by the sound of approaching hooves.

* * *

Saruman arched his back and screamed from the sheer agony. For a long, terrible moment, he couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't even _feel_ under the crushing weight of torture his mind was currently subject to. He could only lie there and let the _thing_ dig into his brain, lie there and let it wrench at him, hack at him, hurt him so much, so much...

However, Saruman was not the head of the White Council for nothing. Calling up all his determination, he groped blindly for his staff. Fighting to stave off his hyperventilation, he focused his magic into blocking the pain. And in the process, he began creating something utterly unheard of before in Middle Earth – a mental shield.

_Shield...to protect...shield...to repel..._Slowly, laboriously, he built it up, hurting all the while. _Sadistic...terrible...Gandalf...could not be so cruel...who could...I will...I __**will**__ find out who..._

* * *

Severus cursed as a barrier appeared before his attack, stopping it short. _Blast it all. And I was so close to liberating that particular flock. _Extending his senses to find a chink in the shield, Severus had completely forgotten about the Rangers' intrusion – until his physical body began jolting about so much he was nearly flung back into it. _**Now**__ what's going on? _Sparing some of his magic to send a quick inquiry to his familiars, he reeled to find _panicfearfeardarkonesflyfly_ in their minds.

_Good heavens, can I not leave them alone for just one night? I can't extract myself __**now**__, it'd be infinitely harder to come back a second time and fight this wizard once he's aware and prepared to face me. Stay safe, little ones, I'll be back as soon as...wai...wha..._

* * *

There was no time to dither around. Digging his spurs into his steed's flank, Rercyn raced alongside Eorel down the darkened path. The horses were clearly scared witless; Rercyn had to fight not to be thrown off with Raza. Around him, the Crebain flew, a strange, frenzied escort to their panicked flight.

And behind them, the hooves thundered, slowly narrowing the distance between the predators and their prey.

* * *

Saruman cursed viciously as he sensed the attacker lingering outside the shield he'd hastily erected in his mind. He knew that it was only a matter of time before his crude little protection was torn away – it was clear that this unknown assailant was well versed in this...mind magic? Thought magic? He didn't know _what _it was, but White Council head or no, he was definitely outclassed. Fortunately, he had _other_ weapons at his disposal, and now that the crushing pain had diminished, he was quite prepared to adapt those weapons to this strange new battleground.

Taking a deep breath, Saruman began to use his Voice. And slowly, subtly, he spun its power into his thoughts and cast it out at the foolish attacker.

* * *

_Do Not Attack Me._ The new voice was calm and authoritarian. It was a voice one would listen to, one couldn't help but obey. Severus found himself slowly easing off his shoving at the barrier, even as his mind detachedly analyzed the voice. It brought to mind Albus at his most determined, Lucius at his most aristocratic, and...and the Dark Lord at his most charismatic.

Abruptly, Severus found himself awake and aware of what he was doing. Even as he felt the compulsion to withdraw his attack, another part of himself screamed at him to stop. _Dammit, no! If even the Potter whelp can resist the Imperius curse...!_

His consciousness, already halfway through retreating back to his physical body, jerked up short. Unfortunately, this caused his body, confused as it was by the mixed signals his consciousness was sending it, to jerk too.

* * *

There was barely any time to react. One moment, Rercyn and Eorel were riding neck-to-neck in their attempt to escape from whatever was chasing them. The next moment, Raza's body had somehow convulsed...and half-slid off the horse. Rercyn let out a surprised cry as he frantically tried to ride and pull Raza up simultaneously. In spite of his efforts, he was forced to slow his steed for a few precious, crucial seconds.

And in those seconds...the threat they'd been fleeing from rode close enough to come into view.

Struggling to heave Raza back onto the saddle, Rercyn froze at the chilling sight before him. Two dark forms, swathed in thick, funereal robes sat astride frothing, mad-eyed black horses. The plants on both sides of the road seemed to lean away from them as they charged along the path, terrible in their implacable determination. What Rercyn found most disturbing, however, was how they seemed somehow..._blurred_. He could swear that the end of their robes, streaming out in the wind, was melting into the darkness itself. It was unnatural. _They _were unnatural. They were Fear, and they were coming towards Rercyn, dark eyes glaring intently from under their hoods, coming closer, closer...

"Rercyn! Let's _go!_" Eorel's voice broke through the haze of terror that had woven around Rercyn. Frantic, he tried to escape again, but it was too late. Neighing in terror, his horse had backed off the road against a tree.

The riders had cornered him.

* * *

While in the service of the Dark Lord, Severus had been constantly subject to various curses and tortures, but they had never included the Imperius Curse, thanks to his well-crafted veneer of subservience to his master's will. Severus was bitterly regretting not having more experience with this particular curse now, as it might have helped him cope with the utter helplessness he was feeling upon having his very _mind_ turn obedient to the loathsome voice.

_Do Not Attack Me. Stay. Stay. Open Your Mind. Stay. _Caught between his desire to obey and his instincts for survival, Severus wavered. But oh, the voice of the Crebain's old master was so very compelling, so much more powerful than any Imperius Curse. Slowly and painfully, his strong shields began to lower, even as he screamed at himself helplessly. _No no don't do it don't can't can't __**stop**__!_

* * *

Saruman poured more and more of his beguiling power into his mental Voice, marveling at the strange new warfare he was engaged in. _After I defeat this opponent, _he promised himself, _I shall have to see if I can turn this talent to my advantage._

Now that the attack had let up, he had more leeway to explore his mind – and find out what the attacker had been after. _Something has been destroyed...an ability? A memory? No, that doesn't seem to be the case. What...?_

Saruman was unable to explore further, as he abruptly felt a ripping pain in his scalp. Swinging around, he barely managed to duck the sharp, gleaming claws that tried to gouge out his eyes. However, he couldn't avoid the strong beaks that left deep, bleeding scratches along his back. Throwing himself behind his desk, he watched as more and more Crebain swooped in through the open window and settled around him. One held a chunk of his long white hair in its claws; a few others snapped their bloody beaks at him.

Saruman swallowed hard, and briefly closed his eyes in reluctant admiration. He was not surprised to reach out for the Crebain bond and find a large part of it missing. _Turning my weapons against me now? Very clever, my enemy. Very clever indeed._

Around him, the Crebain began to circle in a growing black storm of vengeance.

* * *

Severus could have cried with relief when the voice disappeared. He didn't know why it'd left when he was so close to surrendering, he didn't know when it'd come back, but there was one thing he was certain of – he had to finish this, _now_. Severus couldn't conserve his power so carefully any longer; for him to have any chance of succeeding, he would have to sacrifice his Slytherinesque caution and instinctive need for self-preservation.

Gathering up all his power, he slammed himself recklessly at the very root of the bond, and _burned_.

* * *

Rercyn began to shake as the dark forms closed in upon him. Vainly, he tried to pull out his sword, but his fear-stiffened fingers wouldn't obey him. He couldn't move, couldn't keep hold of Raza, couldn't stop his fear-crazed horse from finally bucking up and throwing him off.

Over the rushing noise in his ears, he dimly heard Eorel's screams grow louder, then slowly fade as well, and spared a brief thought of concern for his fellow Ranger. But all that was disappearing into the hazy recesses of his mind, as his sight slowly...faded...to gray...

The last thing he saw was a sudden, strange flare of light.

* * *

Fending off the enraged Crebain, Saruman screamed. Uncaring of how the filthy birds clawed and tore at him, he fell to the ground and curled up in a fetal position around his head. The agony from the mental assault mixed with the pain from the Crebain's attack, until he couldn't tell which was which any longer.

Fighting it all the way, he sank slowly into unconsciousness. He never knew the moment when the bonds broke and the pain finally disappeared. His last sight, however, of a wrathful Crebain with gleaming eyes and outstretched claws, would stay with him for all eternity.

* * *

The bone-deep fatigue Severus felt hardly detracted the sense of accomplishment he felt upon destroying the bond. His magical reserves were almost completely depleted, thanks to his foolish stunt, but at least he'd gotten the job _done_.

His triumph was short-lived, though, as he'd abruptly remembered the anxiousness of his familiars the last time he'd checked in upon them. In his desperation to not succumb to the voice, he'd forgotten that the Rangers seemed to be in trouble too. _But surely, _Severus thought as his consciousness travelled back to his physical body, _it can't be anything as bad as what I'd just faced?_

The moment he fully submerged himself back into his body, however, he could tell that something was terribly wrong. Even as he struggled to open his eyes, crippling fear wrapped around him like a sticky, clingy spider web. And when he finally looked up, to see a strange Dementor-like shape bending over him...he knew he'd plunged into a nightmare.

His last thoughts, before he succumbed to the exhaustion and terror, didn't bear repeating.


	12. A Change of Heart

The Crebain may be _filthynogoodevil_ birds, but that doesn't mean that they are stupid. They aren't pretty like the _snobbybigtail _peacocks, or nice like the _squawkysilly_ chickens, but they are _useful._ They like being useful for their _whitefurryangry _human; they want to see him bare his teeth and stroke their feathers like how the humans with the _nosyscaryloud _dog do it. It's funny how humans bare their teeth so much when they are happy, but the Crebain don't question it. Their _whitefurryangry _human is never happy, though, and so the Crebain get loud angry noises and smacks instead of stroking from him.

And then everything changes when the _notbirdstillflock _human comes, because he becomes their new human! The Crebain caw in happiness at thinking about him; their _notbirdstillflock _human does not bare his teeth in happiness much either, but he gives them the _best_ stroking ever. Sometimes he even picks lots of _tastyjuicysweet _berries and puts them in his skin – and it's so _odd _that humans can take off and put back on their colorful skin like that – and then he feeds them the _tastyjuicysweet _berries while giving them the _best_ stroking. And so the Crebain like their _notbirdstillflock _human very much, and want to share their happiness with the _otherflock_ Crebain too.

But then everything goes wrong. Their _notbirdstillflock _human fights with the _whitefurryangry _human, who doesn't want their _notbirdstillflock _human to give the _otherflock _Crebain any stroking – and the Crebain are angry at that, because the _whitefurryangry _human should learn how to share, and so they tell the _otherflock_ Crebain to stop being useful to the _whitefurryangry _human and help their _notbirdstillflock _human instead. And something their _notbirdstillflock _human does makes it easier for the _otherflock _Crebain to disobey the _whitefurryangry _human, and they don't have to nest in the _darksmokysmall _tower anymore – they can choose where to make their own nests instead!

But that doesn't make things better, because their _notbirdstillflock _human is _still _in trouble, now that the _colddarkfear _monsters have taken him! Truly, the Crebain don't know _how_ their _notbirdstillflock _human manages to survive without them, because he has so _many _enemies. Sure, he can fight well, and he taught the Crebain how to hunt better with their claws and beaks, and sure, he is very clever and cunning, more clever and cunning than the Crebain, but he is still not as good a fighter as the two _horsyhunter _humans, and cleverness and cunningness just aren't enough, as the Crebain know through harsh experience.

But in the end, it's all going to be ok, because their _notbirdstillflock _human doesn't _just_ have cleverness and cunningness – he has the Crebain as well. And the Crebain will not let _anyone_, not even the _colddarkfear _monsters, hurt their _notbirdstillflock _human. And if it means being clever and cunning and protecting the two _horsyhunter _humans instead of fighting the _colddarkfear _monsters directly – because the Crebain _know _that they'll lose, and maybe die, and leave their _notbirdstillflock _human all alone and without Crebain to stroke – well then, the Crebain will just have to protect the _horsyhunter _humans and watch as the _colddarkfear _monsters carry their _notbirdstillflock _human away for now.

Because they _will _get their _notbirdstillflock _human back in the end. They _will_. And then their _notbirdstillflock _human will be happy, and feed them _tastyjuicysweet _berries, and maybe, maybe even bare his teeth at them! That _must _happen.

That _must._

* * *

Warm darkness wrapped around Rercyn like a silken cocoon. Groaning softly, he tried to burrow deeper into the wonderful feeling. Perhaps, if he tried hard enough, he could stay here forever – away from the fear, away from the tiredness, away from the horrible memories of dark shadowy _terrible monstrous beings..._

With a gasp, Rercyn jerked into abrupt wakefulness. Scanning his surroundings wildly, he slumped in relief to see that Eorel was slumbering peacefully at his side...and tensed again at the realization that Raza was _not. _Increasingly panicked looks around the little campsite bore no fruit, as the scowling visage Rercyn so wanted to see was nowhere in sight. Swallowing hard, the weight of what had happened came crashing down on him.

Raza was gone. Because Rercyn...because Rercyn had failed.

Had failed to protect Raza. Had let his king be carried off. Had swooned like a weak maiden, like a callow Ranger facing his first Orc. Had been utterly useless...

"It's amazing how cheery Rercyn looks in the morning, doesn't he? If I squint hard enough, I wouldn't notice the gloom-doom cloud hanging around him at all! Why, he hasn't changed at all from the old days of his being a cute, angsty little child!"

A nervous-sounding giggle broke out. "H-he was like this when you trained him, too?"

"Indeed. Ah, it brings back _so _many old memories. Our Rercyn, always a ray of beauty and joy when he has that just-woken-up-please-kill-me-now expression pasted on. One wouldn't think that he's grown up since then at all! His wife is _such _a marvelous woman, to bear that look every morning. And every evening. Oh, and every moment between mornings and evenings..."

"I'll thank you to keep Acalith out of your grubby mind, Addroc," Rercyn tried to smile, as he turned towards his friend. Judging by Addroc's fading grin, though, he wasn't very successful.

"Well, that's fine gratitude from you there!" huffed the grizzly Ranger, looking worriedly at the two. "Show your old mentor some respect, especially in front of his new students! You're making me look bad, y'know!"

"I'm sure that you make _yourself_ look bad very easily, old man. All my respect for you disappeared on that unforgettable day that you decided to take me and Eorel out to carouse the taverns; seeing you drunk and singing bawdy songs with Wudon was quite enough to traumatize my mind for good. Speaking of Wudon, where is he? It's been too long since I last talked to him." Rercyn rose to his feet as he spoke, relishing the keen ache in his limbs which told him that _yes, _he was still alive and ready to do battle. Looking more closely at his surroundings, he detected the two boys peering at him curiously while swinging on the tree above Addroc. _Ah, to be young and fresh again, _he thought, sparing a brief thought of wistfulness for his old days as a wide-eyed trainee Ranger under Addroc's and Wudon's care.

"...Ah. Wudon." Addroc's voice changed; broke upon that single word. Startled, Rercyn turned his eyes away from the boys – though not before noting the sudden sad look upon their youthful faces – and regarded his old mentor again. The grief in Addroc's eyes nearly took his breath away, and in a flash, he realized what the old Ranger was reluctant to say.

_Wudon...was gone. _

Staring at Addroc, he nearly voiced the question, both needing and dreading verbal confirmation. But Addroc's eyes...his eyes were all the confirmation Rercyn needed. Tipping up his head to the sky, Rercyn let the sharp sorrow slice through his heart.

_Wudon...was dead._

Sweet memories appeared in his mind's eye, unraveling before him the entirety of their loving relationship. Images of the weather-beaten old Ranger, laughing with Rercyn, talking with Rercyn, being there for Rercyn through thick and thin, rose and fell.

_Wudon. Oh, Wudon. _His mentor. His role model. His father-figure.

_I will miss you so._

And Rercyn took a deep breath, and cast the sorrow away from him like a well-worn cloak, to be taken up again when the time was right. Looking back at Addroc, Rercyn attempted a smile. Addroc had tried to cheer Rercyn up before this. It was now Rercyn's turn to do the same. "So, how came all of you to be here? Chased out of the city again by suspicious innkeepers?"

Addroc snorted and took up the friendly banter again with an eagerness painful to see. "Nay, though I swear that the people hereabouts grow evermore cantankerous and unwelcoming to the weary Ranger. Unfortunately, 'tis behavior which our respected Steward has lately seemed to share! Behold, Rercyn," and here Addroc swept wide his arms in a grand gesture, "your cavalry. Ow!"

"Ah! Don't strain your injuries so!" cried out one of the boys in distress as he dropped down from the tree and rushed to Addroc's side, the other boy following closely at his heels. Disregarding the old Ranger's protests, they dragged down Addroc's right sleeve to display a neatly bandaged shoulder and began to inspect it. Rercyn watched with surprise, then increasing amusement, as Addroc flapped and shouted for quite awhile before managing to shoo the boys away on a firewood-collecting mission. Slumping down with poorly-hidden relief, the old Ranger cocked a jaundiced eye over at Rercyn and said warningly, "Don't _even_ think of saying anything."

Wisely, Rercyn stifled a chuckle. In all his merriment, however, his keen eyes hadn't missed the fact that Addroc had hammed up his indignation to the lads' mother-henning. _Addroc wanted the boys gone before he talked to me, and probably for a good reason._ "Not at all. I'm curious, rather, by what you mean by 'cavalry'?"

"Ah. 'tis a long tale, one," and here Addroc lowered his voice, "unfit for impressionable young ears. Before I start, however, understand that I would never speak ill of Steward Denethor; he is a good ruler for Gondor. Unfortunately, he has been beset with many difficulties over the past few months. Mayhap you've heard of his lady's illness?"

"Of course! I believe that she took ill...why, she took ill two years ago, I reckon, when Eorel and I were still near enough to the city to receive news. Surely she has recovered since then?"

"Sadly not, laddie. Lady Finduilas' condition has been steadily worsening; 'tis doubtful that she will live through this year. The Steward has been fretting over her very much; some would say _overly _much. I say 'tis nonsense – what husband, much less a loving one like the Steward, could remain calm about his wife's impending death? But such are the wagging tongues on the street; they believe that he has been neglecting his duties for the poor lady. As if the Steward would ever do that! But everything might perhaps have still been fine, if some of the Steward's uppity _counselors_ hadn't taken it into their fool heads that this was an opportune time to stage a coup by bringing forward a false heir to the throne! Naturally, the Steward would take none of their nonsense, and exiled the whole treasonous lot from the land, but 'tis clear that he is in quite a state of agitation. Ah, it does my heart no good to see him welcome the New Year with such a heavy burden on his shoulders."

Rercyn gulped. Cautiously, he lowered his head, hiding his expression away from the keen eyes of his mentor. His head was reeling from all the unexpected news. False heir! Treason! Exile!

The sudden appearance of a royal pretender wasn't a problem; such imposters appeared from time to time throughout Gondorian history. Rercyn was convinced that Raza was not one of them; such imposters rarely had more than a pretty tale to spin to back up their assertions, and they almost certainly _never _had the royal healing abilities that Raza possessed. However, this news, coming so soon upon the heels of Rercyn's late-night conversation with Eorel, greatly disturbed the poor Ranger; he truly didn't know what to think or do now. Certainly he couldn't tell Addroc of Raza's existence. Warily, Rercyn remarked, "It appears that Eorel and I have been away from the city for too long. However, I see little reason that this should be kept secret from your young students. Surely everyone must know of it by now?"

"Oh, aye, that's not the news I was speaking of. Rather, it's the Steward's increasing disregard for the Rangers which I disapprove of. Mayhap you remember the urgent message you sent awhile ago, regarding your guarding of an 'important person'? That message was singularly uninformative, and so we could do nothing other than wait for further information, which _you never sent_. I'll be speaking with you on that later, laddie; it appears that you've forgotten the need for sending constant reports back to the city. But anyway, a few days ago, another message turned up, demanding that the Steward send you aid. I didn't see it, but young Rigel was the carrier, so he told me that it ordered, practically _ordered _the Steward to send out _all_ Rangers to, and I quote word-for-word, 'rescue the important crow-traveler guarded by two Rangers'. Oh, and to 'bring light upon our travels'. Odd, is it not?"

Rercyn sucked in a disapproviing breath. "Who'd be presumptuous enough to order the Steward around?"

"Hah. Believe it or not, 'twas Mithrandir, the Grey Pilgrim!"

"Mithrandir? The wizard that the Steward detests?" Rercyn's incredulity and confusion was unfeigned. _What association could the wizard possibly have with Raza?_

"Aye, 'tis a puzzle, right enough! Verily, if it was as urgent as the wizard made it out to be, why could he not use his powers to rescue the _crow-traveler_ himself? Well, naturally it didn't sit well with the Steward, to be ordered around in such a high-handed manner, and yet your message made it clear that _something_ was going on with you two, so we Rangers pestered him to let us investigate. But, well, the Steward was already in a temper from his lady's illness and the failed coup, so what should he do but make it a first-level _trainee _mission!"

"What? But...but that's preposterous! This is too far from the city safety zones to bring trainees! How old are those two boys, anyway?"

Addroc sighed despairingly. "Mablung is but a mere twelve years of age, while Damrod is _ten._ The same age as the Steward's elder son, Boromir! 'tis shameful indeed, that they'd be caught in this...this _power_ war between the Steward and the wizard!"

"Yes. Quite." Rercyn grimaced. "I take it that the two youngsters know nothing of this?"

"Naturally. 'tis not my place to question the Steward, nor is it within my heart to deprive the two children of their joyful pride at being chosen for such a demanding mission. And thus far, they have comported themselves admirably. Mayhap you've noticed the odd increase in Orc activities lately? Curious, is it not?"

"...quite." _Not at all, if one realizes that the Orcs were all targeting Raza._

"It took us off guard, the first night we travelled out into the wild. Wudon," and here Addroc took an unsteady breath, "Wudon had the first watch, and just managed to raise the alarm before the Orcs took him down. Fortunately, Mablung and Damrod didn't panic; they followed each and every one of my instructions to the letter. It was wonderful to see them, Rercyn; young they might be, but the talent and initiative they show is incredible. You have them to thank for saving you last night; after we escaped the Orcs, they pleaded that we continue the mission. We've been travelling and fighting Orcs for the past few days – and one of those great brutes tried to tear my arm out! It was just a stroke of good luck that we heard you and Eorel crying out and reached in time to chase off those strange _creatures_," and here Addroc couldn't restrain a shiver, "that were attacking you. 'tis fortunate, too, that they seemed wary of the fire-torches we were holding. What _were_ they?"

"Vala knows," murmured Rercyn, fighting to stave off his own shudder at the memory of the cold, terrifying beings. It appeared that the story was at an end, and yet, looking at Addroc's careworn, well-beloved face, Rercyn couldn't help but think that there was more to it than Addroc would ever confess to. _Addroc and Wudon are far too old and respected to be made instructors of first-level trainees. They shouldn't have been gadding about in the wilds like this! They must have finagled their way into this mission after hearing that it was Eorel and I who were in trouble. Oh Wudon. _Discreetly, Rercyn passed a hand over his wet eyes, mourning the unneeded sacrifice of his mentor. _Oh, Wudon._

Addroc's next question, though, dispelled much of his sorrow and replaced it with panic. "So, what of your news, Rercyn? I warrant that it must be very interesting indeed! What might be so important about this _crow-traveler_ that the wizard speaks of?"

Swallowing hard, Rercyn smiled weakly. "Well, ye-es, that's a truly interesting tale to tell. Heh."

Addroc waited, but when it became clear that Rercyn wasn't prepared to speak further, he prompted him again. "Come now, speak up! 'twill be an interesting thing to discuss, I warrant, on our trip back to Minas Tirith. How came the wizard to..."

"We're going back _now_?" demanded Rercyn, startled. "But what of...what of the crow-traveler?"

Addroc blinked. "You mean that there truly _is _a _crow-traveler_? I'd just about convinced myself that it was all wizard nonsense! Well, I saw no _crow_-_travelers_, though I _do _see crows." He gestured at the tree behind Rercyn. Rercyn glanced upwards.

A dozen pairs of beady black eyes peered back down.

Sucking in a surprised breath, Rercyn swung himself onto the tree. Disregarding Addroc's surprised and curious look, he murmured to the little Crebain, "Now, why might you be here?" The Crebain cawed. "Where's Raza?" As one, the little birds looked to the east. Nodding his head, Rercyn spoke again, hopefully. "I don't suppose there's a chance that you could tell me what on earth's going on?" At that, the Crebain just fluttered their wings and gave Rercyn no reply. Rercyn sighed and nodded. "Right."

"Rercyn." At Addroc's stunned, yet increasingly amused tones, Rercyn glanced down. "Mayhap my eyes are deceiving me, but...are you speaking to those little birds?"

Rercyn sighed again. "The number of odd things Eorel and I have had to do over the past few days would surprise you, Addroc. At any rate, I'm afraid I have to say that they are _not _the _crow-traveler_ whom the wizard referred to. Rather, that title belongs to a man who, I believe, has been carried off by the strange beings you saw. We need to get him back as soon as possible."

"I can't say I fancy the thought of fighting those beings, Rercyn, especially with two youngsters tagging along. Perhaps if we could send a message to the city, to ask for further reinforcements..."

"That'd be advisable, but I'd still prefer it if we led the chase. That man is _very_ important, Addroc, more than I can say. It's truly urgent that we retrieve him at all costs!"

* * *

Faint sounds filtered into Saruman's consciousness. It sounded like...humming? Yes, that was it. Someone was humming a little tune. Hmph. Saruman did not welcome this disturbance. Grumbling a little, he shifted around into a more comfortable position and flapped an imperious hand at the annoying voice. "Go. Leave me be."

But wait. Something was wrong. His own voice sounded odd and croaky. Saruman frowned and tried again, in a stronger tone. "Go awa...ack!"

The sharp pain in his throat pulled Saruman fully awake. Sitting up and groping for his neck, his hands grabbed hold of...bandages? Disregarding the voice, now fussing at him to "leave those bandages alone, Saruman!" he dug suddenly-shaking fingers under the dressings, and encountered...scars. Deep, ropy scars stretched across his neck from ear to ear. The last memento of the Crebain.

But no. No, his throat couldn't be damaged. That'd mean that his Voice could have been damaged. That'd mean that his power, his talent for persuasion, was compromised. He was a wizard, _the _head wizard, the chief of the White Council; surely he could heal insignificant wounds with ease. The damage couldn't, _couldn't _be permanent...!

"Saruman. Saruman! Calm down!" Forceful hands pried his desperate fingers away from his neck. Saruman blinked, startled to see a worried face swim into view. A worried, deeply familiar face. A worried, deeply familiar, _much hated_ face. Shaken and confused, unable to quickly bring up his usual mask of false courtesy, Saruman instinctively blurted out a less-than-flattering greeting.

"By the Vala, what are _you_ doing here, Gandalf the Grey?"

Gandalf was unperturbed at his sudden hostility. Puttering around Saruman's bed – _like an old woman_, Saruman thought uncharitably – he was slow to reply. "All in good time. You must not try to talk just yet. Though that wound will heal fully with time, the damage it wrought was curiously severe. I was quite anxious to see you in such great pain."

_Pain? _Oh yes, Saruman remembered pain. The injuries the Crebain inflicted were _nothing _compared with the agony wrought from his unknown attacker's mental assault. Thankfully, Gandalf appeared ignorant of the _true_ reason Saruman had been injured so badly. Disregarding the old wizard's admonition to keep quiet, Saruman snapped out, "Bah! I could have taken care of it easily. That still doesn't explain your presence here. Were you not enjoying yourself at...the Shire?" He barely managed to contain a sneer at his last words.

"Yes, I was. However, urgent business called me away. Perhaps you might have heard of an odd man traveling to Minas Tirith? I know little of him, save that it is imperative that we find him before less savory characters do. However, I had barely reached the borders of Gondor before I sensed a great disturbance in our bond. Imagine my shock to find that your link to the bond had been destroyed!"

Saruman stiffened in sudden fear. _Link? Bond? He knows of my bond to the Crebain...wait._ Abruptly, he remembered the _other_ bond that he had. The bond that linked him to the other four wizards of Middle Earth. The bond of the Maiar.

That particular bond was one which the wizards had, in the early days, used to call together the White Council. For the Maiar, newly arriving at the unfamiliar land of Middle Earth, that bond had been a source of comfort and companionship. Though it was mostly an inactive bond, its presence, humming quietly in the back of minds, had served to remind them that, no matter how far they were from each other, _they were not alone_. Over the years, however, as the wizards became more familiar with their dwellings and more comfortable with other modes of communication; as the differences between them became more pronounced, they grew distant from each other, slowly but surely pulling away from the bond.

Saruman had, in truth, forgotten about the bond altogether. As he turned inwards to explore his mind, though, he was disconcerted to realize that it had been burned along with the Crebain bonds by his unknown attacker. Trying to ignore his inexplicable sense of loss, Saruman focused back onto Gandalf's tale.

"...and we decided that, since I was the closest to your lands, I would make my way here in all haste. So, I sent a message to Denethor, requesting that he complete my quest, and rushed to Isengard. I admit that I was _most_ relieved to find you alive. Indeed," and here Gandalf's voice lowered with some unnamed emotion, "I had feared the worst. When I saw you lying so still, broken, bleeding, wracked by pain..."

Gandalf stopped, seemingly overcome by the fearful memory. Saruman, too, was silent; he could imagine all too well the disgraceful image that he'd presented. To think that Gandalf had seen him brought so low! The sheer indignity and mortification he felt nearly choked him.

After a long while, Gandalf finally spoke again. His voice rose again with passion, for he now pursued a familiar argument that had been discussed between the two countless times before.

"And so, Saruman, my old friend, do you not see it? The destruction of the bond could only have been wrought by evil means! I plead that you listen once more to my request. Is this not sufficient proof that the Dark is still rising and that Sauron is growing evermore powerful? Our attack upon Dol Goldur was not enough; it had merely forced him to change his base of operations. Let us venture into Mordor and smite the evil within, once and for all!"

Saruman still remained silent. His thoughts, jumbled as they were, brought him no enlightenment. For what now could he do? His tentative alliance with the Dark was in a shambles; for he agreed with Gandalf that certainly his attacker must have been Sauron. Who else could have been as powerful? But oh, it galled him so to have been proven wrong. It galled him so to hear Gandalf's self-righteous claims...but no. No, it was uncharitable of Saruman to think so. _Gandalf had dropped his quest, had dropped everything for my sake. _Gazing at Gandalf's affectionate, caring smile, Saruman felt the familiar rush of resentment. But now...it was now mixed with a faint flicker of gratitude.

Slowly, he closed his eyes, blocking out the sight of his old friend's – rival? Helper? – face. His voice, when he finally spoke, was gruff and curt.

"I will consider it. Now leave me be."

_A/N: Just wanted to make a few quick notes. Firstly, Severus hadn't **intended** to burn away Saruman's bond with the other Maiar, he just **accidentally** did it in his desperation to get the job over and done with. Secondly, **Mithrandir** is **Gandalf**. Thirdly, kudos to those who spot all the canon characters (at least five, if we're counting mere mentions of their name and blink-and-you'll-miss-it appearances) in this chapter! _


	13. Keeping Your Friends Close

_A/N: __I have to confess that I made a pretty big mistake with the timeline in the previous chapter. According to Tolkien's timeline, Denethor's wife, Lady Finduilas, died in TA2988, and Saruman only actually looked into the palantir in TA3000. For some reason, I hadn't remembered the latter part, and so I assumed that Saruman had turned traitor a long time ago. I can't change the storyline now, and so I apologize for the departure from canon history._

"Truly, Gandalf, I see no reason to ally with a man, even if he be Isildur's Heir...Pah! Do not speak to me of _instincts_. _Logic_ tells me that the Enemy will be defeated by wizard powers rather than mortal warmongering...no. _No, _Gandalf! This, this _Aragorn _already benefits from _your _help, which, I should add, could be put to _better_ use helping _me _research more about Sauron's weaknesses..." Saruman forcibly cut off his burgeoning tirade with an irritated sigh.

"This is going nowhere. Why don't you...why don't you...do you remember my library? Perhaps you may like to visit it? I have acquired many new scrolls which may interest you... I will heal soon. You have my full gratitude, but you _should_ resume your quest as _quickly _as possible..."

_By the Vala, I'd forgotten how annoyingly __**pigheaded **__Gandalf can be! _Saruman's relief was palpable when Gandalf finally, _finally _deigned to leave his bedroom and headed to the little library at the _other_ end of the tower – in which Saruman had made sure to keep only his most harmless scrolls, of course. With any luck, Gandalf would _stay_ in that library and leave Saruman in peace for the rest of the day.

Truly, it had been far too long since Saruman had seen Gandalf in person. After their last explosive argument at the White Council, well-nigh thirty-five years ago, Saruman had not thought to see his old friend again visiting his domain. And now that Gandalf _had _visited Isengard with the express purpose of saving Saruman and tending to his injuries? Saruman found himself wishing that Gandalf had continued to stay away. Any gratitude he had felt towards Gandalf was now firmly buried underneath an incredible irritation. Gandalf was just too hot-tempered, just too impatient, just too disrespectful, just too...just too _undignified_ for Saruman to endure.

_And that, clearly, is the price of his hobnobbing with lesser beings, _Saruman thought with mournful disdain. And truly, he could sympathize with Gandalf. What Maia _wouldn't _lose their patience, their temper and their dignity when doomed to deal daily with the common idiotic rabble of humans and hobbits? Saruman could only conclude that whatever secret Gandalf hid from him _must _be powerful indeed, to render him so willing to suffer a life among uncouth, powerblind mortals. Unfortunately, though he'd spied on his old friend assiduously over the past few decades, even going so far as to scrutinize his peculiar habit of pipe-smoking, he was no closer to discovering Gandalf's secrets than he'd been at the start of his investigation. _Curse him and his cunning!_

However, despite his irritation, Saruman couldn't deny that Gandalf _was _trying his best to take care of him. Though they'd nearly come to blows more than once when Gandalf's brashness had clashed horribly with Saruman's arrogance – and yes, Saruman _knew_ that he was arrogant, and saw no problem with it, thank you very much, for did he not have the intelligence and power to back up that arrogance? – though Gandalf clearly longed to resume the mysterious quest that he'd previously aborted in order to come to Saruman's aid, Gandalf never left, and never gave up in tending to Saruman's injuries. And Saruman...could acknowledge his debt to Gandalf, and knew that he'd have to repay him in time. Curiously, that did not rankle as much as Saruman thought it would.

But then again, after the attack, Saruman found that he was less easily irritated, and his head was clearer than it had been in a long time. Looking back, he could feel only mortification at some of the idiocies he'd committed in the past few years. Proposing treaties of alliance with the ignorant, uncultured Dunlendings? Honestly, consorting with them was by far more appalling than consorting with hobbits, who at least appeared to have _some_ modicum of manners. Felling the trees around Isengard to make his dwellings look more imposing? He truly hadn't needed Gandalf's disapproving gaze and censuring remarks to know that it'd been a supremely ridiculous decision. He was only glad that none of the nosy Ents had caught wind of _that _debacle yet.

Indeed, Saruman regretted it all now. The more he thought about it, the odder his past behavior looked to himself. He could only conclude that somehow, _somehow, _Sauron had corrupted his thoughts. It was disturbing, for he could not imagine how Sauron could _possibly _have slipped through his nets.

Well, he would just have to investigate the wardings around Isengard as soon as possible. And, as much as he hated the idea, he would have to find a way to reverse all his ridiculous decisions – in secret, of course. _Let it never be known that Saruman the White stumbled and fell prey to the Enemy's machinations._ He would have to end the alliances, recreate his gardens, stop the Orc experiments that he'd been conducting under his tower...

Or perhaps he could keep the experiments? Not _all_ his actions were without benefit, and having an army of superior Orcs would go a long way in fighting Sauron. Yes. Yes, he would keep the Orc experiments. And the new Black scrolls which detailed the fall of Sauron from the eyes of the Enemy – he would keep those too. Perhaps they could give him a clue to Sauron's weaknesses! _And _the palantir – that was such a fascinating Dark artifact, he couldn't bear to part with it – and with a little more time, Saruman was _sure_ that he could manipulate its powers to his own benefit, rather than to Sauron's! Not to mention, the Dark spells he planned to test out...wait. The palantir_._

Saruman's burgeoning eagerness to resume his beloved research ground to an abrupt halt.

The palantir.

The _palantir_.

Before the vicious attack, he'd been viewing memories of Gandalf.

He'd been viewing memories of Gandalf within his Scrying Hall.

The Scrying Hall was where all his memories of Gandalf, all his Dark Artifacts and the palantir were located.

He'd left the Scrying Hall in a rage, without bothering to ward it..._or even close its doors._

And Gandalf, power-sensitive Gandalf, ever-curious Gandalf, _Gandalf_ was now wending his way through Saruman's dwelling, and Saruman knew, just _knew,_ that Gandalf would sense the Darkness, that Gandalf's curiosity would be roused by the odd room that he'd never seen before..._and that he would enter_.

Saruman was out of his bed and down the hallway before he'd finished that thought.

* * *

The doors to the Scrying Hall were shut.

Saruman stared at them, chest still heaving from his mad dash through Isengard.

The doors to the Scrying Hall _were shut._

Sauron's attack had taken a heavier toll upon Saruman that he'd wished to admit to Gandalf. And if Gandalf was inside...if Gandalf saw his artifacts, and misunderstood Saruman's good intentions in collecting and analyzing them...it was highly likely that Gandalf would confront Saruman with violence.

And with his current debilitating injuries, Saruman would be hard pressed to win that encounter.

Lips pressed tightly together, Saruman walked up to the doors. Stared at them some more. With a light push of his magic, sent them flying wide open. And walked in, both hands holding firmly onto his staff. His eyes swept through the Hall, cataloging the objects within.

His memories of Gandalf, frozen into little raindrops hanging from the lights. They were untouched. _Good._

His dark artifacts, placed carefully within warded jars and spelled to look like furniture. Also untouched. _Good._

But the palantir was uncovered. _Not good._

And Gandalf was staring right into it, lost in its depths.

Words could not fully describe what Saruman felt at that moment. With an indignant roar, Saruman charged to the center of the Hall and grabbed his _nosy interfering busybody _friend away. "What do you think you're _doing_, Gandalf the Grey? Do you think this a mere _toy_..."

His words faltered as he took in Gandalf's pallid, sweat-streaked face. His hands involuntarily loosened their death grip on Gandalf's shoulders, which proved to be a mistake; they were all that was holding Gandalf upright and on his feet. Slowly, Gandalf sank down, his bloodshot eyes gaining a dazed cast.

"Saruman..." He wheezed dizzily.

"By the Vala, what happened, Gandalf?" Saruman cried out. Whirling around, he looked cautiously into the palantir, and felt pure dismay to see only murkiness in its depths. "Did you _break _it?"

"No...no...I looked...I think...we talked...years passed...he said...an eternity..."

Preoccupied with breaking past the murkiness, Saruman paid scant attention to Gandalf's ramblings. Straining to see something, _anything, _in his treasured tool, he was unprepared for the murkiness to suddenly dissolve into nothingness...and the bleeding, injured, _blinded _Eye of Sauron to appear in a flash of dark fire. Gasping, Saruman reeled back instinctively, only to catch the last, few, _damning_ words of Gandalf,

"We talked...he said...he said...that you served him, and that I'd be better off...serving him too..."

Saruman tensed, but looking back at Gandalf, he could see only dazedness and incomprehension.

"And then?" he prodded carefully. Memories of his own encounter with Sauron rose. He'd been as unprepared as Gandalf, as unable to fight the Dark Lord using the corrupted palantir, and so, to survive the encounter, he'd been forced to enter the Dark Lord's service. He'd thought that he'd managed to trick the Dark Lord – but now he was forced to conclude that this was how the Dark Lord had slipped through his warding. He knew now, that he was the one tricked.

Saruman grimaced at the bitter taste of defeat, and chanced a second look into the palantir. But no. Sauron's blindness appeared to be only temporary; already, the Eye was glaring vengefully around for its attacker. Saruman withdrew hastily again – with his own injuries, he was no match for the Dark Lord's power. Glancing back at Gandalf, he asked again, "Well?"

Gandalf barked out a hoarse laugh. "What choice...did I have? I said no...we fought...oh _how _we fought..." His laughter trailed off into a heaving gulp, as Gandalf fought to keep from vomiting onto the stone floor. But Saruman did not heed his consideration; he felt eaten out by exasperated bitterness at Gandalf's words. Noble Gandalf. Valiant Gandalf. Of course. Of _course _Gandalf never considered lying. Of _course _Gandalf charged right in to fight Sauron. Of _course _Gandalf was willing to die to uphold his ideals. In that instant, hate and admiration warred within Saruman's breast, and he felt ready to finish off the job that Sauron had started.

"Saruman?" Gandalf's voice was lost. Turning around, ready to throttle Gandalf for being so _horribly_, _terribly noble, _Saruman blinked to see Gandalf staring at him sorrowfully. "It's true...you've turned traitor..."

In the years to come, Saruman would swear that his next reaction was pure instinct. The word 'traitor' swept away all feelings of hate and admiration, and replaced them with sheer panic. Sweeping out his staff, Saruman _attacked._

The sickening crack of Gandalf's body slamming into the unyielding stone wall echoed around the Scrying Hall.

For a long moment, Saruman froze. Staring at the limp, unconscious body of his old friend, he couldn't stop a deep, sick feeling from rising in his throat.

_Kinslayer._

_Traitor._

_**Dark.**_

Gandalf was honest; too honest. Nothing would stop him from ousting Saruman to the world.

Gandalf was his friend and equal; his _only _friend and equal. The other wizards had not Gandalf's quick wit or keen intelligence. Saruman could not, would not kill him.

He wasn't prepared for this. He couldn't allow Gandalf to brand him as a traitor. And yet, he wasn't callous enough to silence his old friend for good.

Time slowed, and spun around him. For a long moment, Saruman closed his eyes, and banished the lingering echoes of Sauron's power upon his mind. For a long moment, he gazed upon all the roads that he could take, all the decisions that he could make, to _continuechangereverse _his act of attacking Gandalf.

When he opened his eyes, Saruman the White was cold and focused. Rising to his feet, Saruman the White steadily approached his old friend. Slowly, but unhesitatingly, Saruman the White placed a gentle hand upon his old friend's brow, and used the mind powers that he learnt from his last attacker, to make his old friend..._forget._

_This never happened. _Saruman the White linked his mind to Gandalf's thoughts.

_This is not real. _Gandalf was injured and unconscious; Saruman the White found it easy to work past his mental shields.

_You walked straight to the little library. You stayed there all day. You slept. _Saruman the White weaved his Voice into thoughts and cast its power out upon his old friend. Ignoring his injuries, ignoring his fatigue, Saruman the White, Head of the White Council, worked patiently to create a new memory that overlaid Gandalf's old ones. Heedless of his aching throat, heedless of his cracking Voice, Saruman the White healed all detectable wounds upon Gandalf's mind and body. Disregarding his growing anger, disregarding his self-loathing, Saruman the White brought Gandalf to the library and carefully set the scene.

He thought of everything. He omitted nothing.

And then, Saruman the White calmly returned back to the Scrying Hall, closed and warded the doors, and _screamed._

Fury coursed through his veins at what he'd done. Fury at himself, fury at Gandalf, and most of all, fury at _Sauron_.

_**He**__ ensnared me. __**He **__attacked me. __**He**__ ousted me to Gandalf as a traitor!_

Saruman screamed until his throat burned with agony. And then, with a swirl of his robes, he stalked to stand in front of the palantir. His voice was raw and harsh, but every word he spoke then was tinged with a terrible, imposing menace.

"You may have believed that you had me in your loathsome grasp, Sauron. You may have thought that you could manipulate me to do your ridiculous bidding. But you overestimate yourself, and underestimate me, if you believe that I will meekly swallow this insult to my power. For that, and that alone, I swear an oath upon my name. I will rip from you all that you own, and I will destroy every bit of the power that you so crave. And when you are wallowing in your own filth and begging for my mercy, I will show you, and the world, that Saruman the White will not be trifled with. I will show that I will not be made a fool of, and that it is, in fact, you who were the fool, when you dared to include me within your machinations. And so do I swear to repay you for the humiliation that you have visited upon me. Eye for an eye, Dark Lord Sauron," a hand was placed upon the palantir with a deadly smile, "Eye for an eye."


	14. Cruel Persuasion

He first felt the silence, a bone-deep deadness of sound which burrowed deep into his body and chilled him to the core. Darkness wrapped around him in a grotesque embrace, dragging him deeper and deeper into the nothingness where he belonged. He was tired and cold, hurt and hungry – and fearful. Oh, so fearful. But there was nothing there that could help him. No one there that he could call out to. He was in a well of silence, in an endless miasma of fear and misery and hate and need...

At that point, Severus decided that he was dreaming again, and made a valiant effort to wake up.

He didn't succeed. Something..._or someone_...was keeping him unconscious.

Wariness whipped into being at that thought. It doubled at the realization that the nightmare was inexplicably, chillingly familiar. _I've been here before. I felt this darkness, the night before I bonded to the Crebain. _Severus had dismissed the experience then as a mere nightmare, but now, he had to reevaluate...

"_Such an odd childe. Were you truly Melkor's get, you would be his most successful son as yet. Not many can claim credit to sowing strife among my kin."_

The clear male voice which followed upon the heels of his suspicions was possibly the most unwelcome confirmation Severus had ever experienced. Clenching his jaws, he made a brief but thorough search to find the chink in his shields which had allowed this intrusion.

He found nothing. His shields were as strong as ever, built as they were through years of painstaking training and reinforcement.

That soothed his pride, which had been appalled at the possibility that his much-valued mental shields weren't as strong as he'd thought them to be. Unfortunately, it also heightened the potential danger level of the speaker. The voice seemed composed and non-threatening, but there was a power in it which just plain unnerved him. And the words the speaker had used were disturbingly odd...wait.

_I'd understood what he said? _

Severus cursed; his thoughts quickened. If there was someone here controlling his dream...if there was someone here that actually spoke a language he could _comprehend_...but no. Upon reflection, it was nothing like the languages in Severus' old life, or even like the speech that the warriors had been trying to teach him. Rather, it was beautiful, resonant, and his instinctive comprehension of it sounded deep within his bones.

Finally deciding to test the waters, Severus called out demandingly, "Show yourself!"

Somehow, it didn't surprise him when silence was his only response.

But wait. There _was_ something here. Something ephemeral. Something he could barely sense. Suddenly, Severus realized with shock that what he'd been hearing wasn't silence. As he strained his ears and truly began listening to his surroundings, Severus realized that he was surrounded by music. And it was music unlike any he had heard before.

It was music, and yet more than music. It weaved its way into his mind, whispering to him of things he didn't know of and would never comprehend. It thrummed the songs of love and beauty and joy, it pulsed with the soul of perfection and unity and connection, it sang to him of the world that was, the world that had been and the world that would be. It had life. It _was _Life. It flowed sweetly, smoothly, all-encompassing, surrounding him, within him...

_"Ah. You listen well. You __**are **__a childe of our world, after all." _The return of the voice was like a dash of cold water.

Shaking himself free of the pleasant daze he'd fallen into, Severus opened his mouth, ready to verbally lambast his captor into letting him free – and closed it again. He would not be baited into behaving rashly. _Stay calm. Stay alert. Stay silent._ And it was well that he did, for at that moment, strange voices began to seep into his consciousness.

_"The threads have loosened. The weave is changing, and I can no longer see the end of its making." _The pensive, peaceful feminine voice held echoes of clacking needles and shifting looms. Involuntarily, Severus felt his worry lessen at her soft, gentle tenor, even as he puzzled over the words.

_"And so does Middle-Earth taste the fruits of your rash decision, Namo." _The new voice burned with a light so blinding it seared through Severus' soul, even as he cringed away from the overt disapproval expressed in its tones. _"How came a childe of Death to leave your Halls and walk in maturity under the Sun once more?"_

A cool, indifferent voice, carrying the chill of the grave and the eerie shadows of mortality, now entered the conversation. Severus deduced that it belonged to Namo – whoever that was. _ "You mistake my meaning, sister. I hold him to be a childe of Death, but I never claimed him as one of my own. This childe's shadow has never passed through my domain. He does not belong to the realms of Arda."_

_"A childe of Melkor, perhaps? Darkness and discord grows within him like a parasite. He should not be allowed to roam free to taint the lands. Word must be sent, to warn the Istari of his coming."_ The second voice rang out again. It was beautiful and bright and yet filled with hostility – indeed, it was beginning to alarm Severus _exceedingly_. For a nasty hunch was telling him that he knew the identity of the 'childe' that the voices were discussing.

_"I have spoken of him to Olórin. But be not so hasty in delivering judgment upon him, Varda. The darkness that wraps around him may not be solely of his own making. Pity him, for his spirit has endured much suffering." _A fourth voice suddenly interjected into the conversation. It held the undertones of one who knew of sorrow and pain and weeping – Severus just wished that he could _see _the faces of the people speaking. As it was, he could do nothing but strain his eyes futilely into the darkness and quietly panic over what sounded like the Judgment of his Fate. For he was fairly sure by now that it was _him _that they were currently discussing.

_"Well said, sister." _Merlin, yet _another _voice was joining the fray. Thankfully, this one seemed to side with the last speaker rather than with the aggressive one they called 'Varda'. However, there was something about it which disturbed Severus. The maternal tones of the speaker sounded familiar. Suspiciously familiar. Suspiciously like the voice which had spoken _to _him in his last nightmare..._"He brings change, but it may be change for the good. Until we know if he be here to heal or harm, we would do well to stay our hand."_

_"If that is your choice, brothers and sisters, so be it." _Varda's displeasure laced every word she spoke, even as her voice slowly grew softer, as if it was fading away into the distance. _"I lay his fate to the will of Ilúvatar..."_

Slowly, the voices dissolved into the music, leaving behind a pensive Severus. Confusion tied up his thoughts into tangled nets._ Who were they? _The speakers had sounded powerful, mighty, even _godlike_. If he'd read the situation correctly, they held the power to destroy him if they wished to. Severus could only hope that the gentler speakers would sway Varda to their more passive stance; loathe though he was to depend upon the pity of others, Severus balked at the thought of having to defend himself against a being so formidable that her very _voice_ was imbued with glaring power. _Merlin, I'm just racking up more and more enemies, aren't I? __I'm truly beginning to regret my choice in new worlds._

The only silver lining Severus could see in this situation was that the speakers were as perplexed as he was at his presence in this new world – or _Middle Earth_, as they called it. Not that it was much of a silver lining; after all, the most likely explanation for that was that there was another agent who'd facilitated his arrival here, and that this agent was powerful enough to remain anonymous and disregard the disapproval from the godlike beings. And from the sinister undertones of everything that'd been happening to him so far, Severus gloomily concluded that whoever it was wasn't his ally. None of the decisions made had been done for _his_ benefit, after all - he hadn't forgotten the fact that he'd asked for _reincarnation_, not to be plunked smack into a new world with adult memories and body intact!

Severus' musings were broken when he suddenly noticed a change in his surroundings. The music was fading; Severus felt a surge of hope that this meant that his captor had finished toying with him. A sudden suspicion struck him; could his captor be the one engineering this whole mess? He certainly _seemed _powerful. Severus felt an involuntary shiver pass through his body, as he considered the ramifications of being helpless to a being which could control his very dreams, enter his very _mind_ and eavesdrop upon the conversation of gods.

But he wasn't given much time to ponder upon this, for it was at that very moment that Severus woke up.

And fear unceremoniously slammed back into his body.

* * *

"Are you _sure _that it's wise to follow these little birdies, Rercyn? Because of them, we lost the trail _ages_ ago. How do they even know which way to go?"

The little birdies in question glared balefully upon hearing Addroc's plaintive words. Shaking his head in exasperation – this was the fourth time Addroc had voiced his doubts – Rercyn replied, "Trust me, Addroc; they know _exactly _where they're going. Don't ask me how, but they've an unerring instinct for finding their master. You'll see."

"But are you _sure? _Honestly, Rercyn, I've never put much stock in the rumor of _birds_ being the "Dark's most-hated spies", but now, I'm beginning to wonder. You _do _realize where they're headed, don't you?"

Addroc's worry irritated Rercyn – every second they wasted debating brought Raza a step further away from them – but he still grudgingly sympathized with his mentor. Caught between the need to protect his young trainee Rangers and the urge to help his old students, Addroc could hardly be faulted for his leeriness upon realizing that their path was taking them straight to the place that fueled every man's nightmares - Minas Morgul.

Suppressing his own doubts at the situation, Rercyn could only reassure Addroc again and hope fervently that his trust in the Crebain wasn't misplaced.

* * *

_Fearfearsomuchfear_

Blood coated the inner lining of Severus' mouth as he chewed on his tongue viciously to block his scream. That was the only sign of fear that he showed; that was the only sign that he _dared_ to show under these circumstances. Exhaustion blurred his thoughts almost as much as the fear did, but Severus forced it all away with some difficulty. Face down upon a sweaty, galloping horse headed for Merlin knew where, he tried to piece together what had happened.

_Fearfearsomuchfear_

He had been captured.

His warrior companions had fainted during the attack, like the spineless wimpy ninnies that they were.

_Fearfearsomuchfearfearescape_

His familiars were leading the warriors, along with some strangers, on a mission to rescue Severus. _Thank Merlin I've **some** decent help around here._

His captor...his captor was seated behind him upon the horse, emanating waves of terror so strong that Severus could barely think straight.

_Fearfearsomuchfearfearescape_

And, impossible as it was, Severus knew that terror. It was a terror he'd never thought he'd feel again in this life.

The terror exuded by a Dementor.

_Fearfearsomuchfearfear**fearescapefear**_

The Crebain screamed in his mind. Warning screams, to tell him where he was headed, and what lay in store.

Severus had to escape, caution and secrecy be damned.

Tired and scared, he was unable to control his impulses. Raging to be set free, he followed his instincts and his familiars' cries, and _attacked._

Twisting around in one fluid movement, Severus flung up his hands and shouted, "_Expecto Patronum!"_

For a short, blessed moment, he thought that it would work. Mist twisted into existence around his fingers, and its soft, pure glow forced the Dementor to rear back to avoid it. Flailing, the Dementor loosened its grip on the horse, which slowed its mad gallop.

Heartened by his success, Severus pushed more power into his spell, willing the mist to take shape...and was brought up short when he realized his fatal mistake:

_He had barely any magic left_.

In his rush, Severus'd forgotten about his magical exhaustion.

His idiotic, sentimental act of fighting to free the Crebain had utterly depleted his magic.

And now, all that was powering his rapidly-failing Patronus spell were the scarce scraps of magic his core had scrounged up since his attack, _and he was wasting it_.

Now, if Severus had been a man less creative, less adaptable, less resourceful, he would have been justified in panicking at this moment. He _was _stuck in what seemed to be a no-win scenario, after all. If he stopped fueling his Patronus spell, there'd be no defense standing between him and the Dementor. If he continued fueling it, however, his scant magic would run out soon enough, leaving him with no magical reserves whatsoever _and _no defense standing between him and the Dementor.

But he'd not survived a life as a double agent for nothing. His failed Patronus would not be enough to save him. But it _was_ enough for him to dig a foot into the horse's tender flank, and roll his body off the startled, bucking equine. It _was_ enough for him to fall to the ground, to scrabble away from his surprised captor, to head towards the forest where he could hide and give himself the time needed to replenish his magical energy...

His plan failed the moment he hit the ground.

For it was then that an icy, mail-clad hand grabbed hold of his throat in a punishing grip.

For it was then that he was lifted up, choking and kicking, and thrown, half-senseless with a fresh wave of terror, over the back of another horse.

His plan had overlooked the presence of a second, more powerful Dementor.

* * *

"Alright. Enough is enough. Rercyn, this is sheer _suicide_. Far be it for me to abandon anyone to the Dark, but you do realize how recklessly you've been behaving? We need to cut our losses, and go back to Minas Tirith _now. _I have lost Wudon to this mission; I will not lose you or anybody else!"

Rercyn stared at Addroc helplessly; he recognized the stubborn jut of Addroc's jaw all too well. They couldn't abandon this quest, and yet, what could he possibly say to placate Addroc?

"No, Addroc," Rercyn jerked up his head in surprise when he heard Eorel's voice. Previously, Eorel had been silent, content with maintaining a neutral stance and letting Rercyn argue with Addroc without support. Rercyn watched disbelievingly as Eorel now approached Addroc and said again, "no. Return with the trainees, but do not think to bring us back as well. We _need_ to rescue this man, and rescue him we will."

"Oh by the Vala, not you too!" Addroc growled in frustration. "This is madness! What hold does this man have on you two, that causes you to act so recklessly?"

"No hold, but that of brotherhood," retorted Eorel sharply. "He drew me back from the brink of death, and fought beside me in battle. That is enough for me. Do not think to persuade us to abort this mission."

Addroc glared, but to no avail. Eorel was far less respectful of authority than Rercyn, and so cared little for placating Addroc. Rercyn watched, stunned, as Addroc wheedled and ranted but was finally forced to leave, swearing imprecations all the way.

When the two Rangers were alone again, Rercyn could only say bemusedly,

"Eorel. Thank you."

Eorel snorted. "Think nothing of it, Rercyn. All that I said was true. I do owe a life debt to that man, and while his disappearance _would_ resolve many of our arguments," his meaningful glance made Rercyn bristle indignantly, "I am not so cruel as to condemn a man to death without concrete proof of his deserving it." He glared at Rercyn challengingly, almost defiantly, though he softened somewhat upon seeing Rercyn's meek nod.

"Besides," he added with a crooked smile, "the birds would kill me if I left now, after all the work they've put into buttering me up."

* * *

Black spots danced in front of Severus' eyes as he struggled to pull away from the steel grip of the Dementor. Time passed; he knew not how much, nor did he care. He was going to pass out, or puke his guts out, or beg for mercy, and wouldn't that just be the highlight of his marvelous plans?

Since the very beginning, nothing had gone right at all; case in point being that he'd somehow managed to pick the _one _world in which _Dementors _existed. Technologically-advanced Dementors, at that – for Merlin's sake, they were Dementors with _swords_ and _horses._ Severus would kick himself for his idiocy in making life-changing choices, if he wasn't too petrified to move.

Because, not only was the Dementor who captured him armed and dangerous, it was also..._chatty._ And though Severus couldn't understand a word it said, the sound of its voice would be the stuff of nightmares for years to come.

_"Vermin these days. So full of surprises." _

The deadened voice scraped across raw nerves like a serrated knife. Severus nearly hurled on the spot, but concentrated on trying to come up with a plan of escape.

"_This should have been anticipated, especially seeing thy seeming immunity against the Black Breath. In my defense, however, one would not think that there were any sorcerers left in this world."_

Merlin, there had to be a way. There _had _to be. Even if his current magical reserves were scarcely enough to power a first-year spell, he wasn't helpless. _Think, __**think...**_

_"Small wonder that thou hast managed to escape the Orcs for so long, little sorcerer. Thou led them on quite a merry chase; I believe that they are most eager to exact vengeance upon thee." _

It chuckled; that was possibly an even more terrifying sound than its merely talking incomprehensibly. Was this how Azkaban prisoners felt? Was this how Black had felt? No, Black had found a way to escape them. Even wandless and tormented for thirteen years, Black had found a way to survive. _How did he do it? How?_ Too much fear; Severus couldn't remember through the fear. _Think, __**think...**_

_"No matter; their failure is my gain. We are the Nine, the Dark Lord's favored; our success in capturing thee, little sorcerer, little vermin, merely reaffirms our superiority once more. Ah, but the time for talk is ending; we have arrived."_

Roughly, the Dementor twisted Severus' head around; he sucked in a gasp to see black gates loom up before him. When had they gotten so close? Slowly, the gates began to open; beyond it, Severus fancied that he could see leering faces in the dark. _Think, __**think...**_

_"Welcome, little sorcerer, to Minas Morgul. Thou wilt see much of it in the future. Perhaps He will give thee to me after He has tired of thee, little sorcerer? I anticipate that; thou seem endlessly amu..." _

Severus couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't remember, he couldn't plan, he couldn't do _anything_ with that terrible rotting voice at his ear. And so he did possibly the stupidest thing he'd ever done in his entire life.

In desperation, in terror, in pure instinctive reaction, Severus flung an arm back, plunged it into the Dementor's hood and screamed out _"Lumos!"_

* * *

The Crebain may be _filthynogoodevil _birds, but they aren't stupid. They know what will happen if they're too slow, they know what will happen if their _notbirdstillflock_ human is brought into the _colddarkfear_ monsters' homes. And so they push the _horsyhunter_ humans to go off the roads, to struggle through the _rustlyfreshearthy _trees because stupid humans don't have wings and are too slow and can't catch up with the _colddarkfear _monsters if they use normal roads.

And when their _notbirdstillflock_ human's screams suddenly stop, leaving behind a horrible silence in their heads, the Crebain know that they have to rush faster and faster on.

* * *

Agony thrummed down Severus' arm, but it was nothing compared to the pain that the Dementor exhibited. As bright light flared from Severus' fingers within the Dementor's face, it shrieked loud enough to bleed his eardrums, flailed and scrabbled to throw itself away from Severus, and generally gave him the perfect opportunity to escape.

It was a pity that Severus couldn't take it, for his fingers, disobedient digits that they were, seemed incapable of moving. They felt as if they were encased in freezing cold, in a rotting, dead substance that sucked away eagerly, hungrily, at his life. His eyes, too, were affected; a hazy veil seemed to have been drawn over his surroundings.

Suddenly, his view shifted.

He abruptly had the sense that he'd drawn the attention of something bad. Something evil.

With a sense of fatality, Severus looked up. He beheld what he would shortly learn to be the Eye of Sauron.

He stared at it. Panic paralyzed his limbs.

It stared back at him. The malice it radiated as it filled up his entire vision filled him with fresh horror.

His free hand came up to make an instinctive warding gesture against evil. His panic rose still further when it laughed.

And then...it spoke. Though Severus hadn't been able to understand the Dementor's speech, he found, with a feeling of detached horror, that he could understand the Eye just fine.

It was too much. Much too much. There was a tipping point to all his fear which would make and break him, and Severus knew that he'd reached it. For an endless moment, he teetered upon the edge of insanity.

And...he broke.

Severus Snape, confused and tormented prisoner, was no more.

Severus Snape, the spy, focused his mind. Severus Snape, the survivor, answered the Eye.

The panic was pushed away. Coldness settled in. And using the persona he'd worn so well for so many years, his life changed yet again.

He spoke.

He bargained.

He promised.

He groveled.

And when it had all ended, and Severus pulled his arm free of the tormented Dementor – _no, the Dark Lord had called it a Nazgul – _thus severing his contact from the Eye, he climbed off the horse. Turned. Walked away from the gates. Did not stop, even when the Nazgul called out to him with a vengeance-tinged hatred. Did not hesitate, even when he realized that the Eye had somehow gifted - _no, cursed - _him with knowledge of the Black Speech.

_"Little vermin. Thou hast escaped me this time, but I will come for thee. Weakling that thou are, rest assured that the next time thou meet me, the Witch King of Angmar, thou wilt meet thy doom."_

Severus walked away from Hell, and did not look back. Severus walked away from Hell, and kept walking until his legs gave out. His last thoughts, as he crawled away to hide himself, were as dead as the promises he'd been forced to make to escape.

Severus walked away from Hell, but the price he'd promised to pay made his freedom as worthless as he was.

* * *

The Crebain might be _filthynogoodevil _birds, but they _know _that they are useful. And when they find their _notbirdstillflock _human unconscious but hidden so well the _horsyhunter _humans would not have seen him had the Crebain not been there, the Crebain feel very, very useful indeed.

_A/N: Possibly the most tiresome chapter I've written so far. There's something wrong with it that I just can't put my finger on. Also, for those of you who wonder why Snape is casting Lumos, note that it fits two criteria which his subconscious probably realized: one, it creates light, which the Nazgul are clearly afraid of, judging from their reactions to the Patronus, and two, it's a first-year level spell, which means that he doesn't need too much magic to cast it._


	15. A Miasma of Evil

"-and then the Lord Sauron actually let him go!" a hoarse voice exclaimed contemptuously, while its companions grunted in surprise and disbelief. Grishnákh, on his way to get a good helping of dinner – word was that some particularly succulent carrion had been brought in from the last Man-village raid, and he knew just which of the soldiers to beat up to get some extra – frowned upon hearing the disparaging tone.

Turning around, his blackened lips twisted instinctively into a derisive curl as he beheld a group of wild Orcs huddled together around a miserable little campfire. _Pathetic swine. _Like every proper Mordor-born Orc, Grishnákh held his wild cousins in the greatest disdain. Though exceedingly skilled at village raiding and guerrilla warfare, the wild Orcs sorely lacked the strict discipline and fearful obedience to the Dark Lord which had been pounded into _proper_ Orc soldiers like Grishnákh. Slowing his steps, he strained to hear more.

* * *

Meanwhile, far above on the mountaintop, the Great Eye of Sauron lazily swiveled around to focus upon the group of Orcs who were bandying his name about so cavalierly.

* * *

"Stupid," snickered a squinty-eyed Orc, gnawing on a piece of moldy bone. "Used to be that He'd never let go of anything he's interested in. Remember that miserable little Gollum creature? Before this Crow-Man came along, that was the last time I'd ever saw Him as focused on one project. Kept the Gollum creature trapped and tortured for years, He did, squeezed out every last piece of information it coulda had, and was in a bad mood for _ages_ after He let it escape to the Outside! Never made sense to me, why He let it go, if He liked the creature so much," he continued contemplatively, picking at a rotten tooth with a dirt-encrusted claw. None of them noticed Grishnákh drawing closer with a disapproving scowl, "but this Crow-Man business makes even less sense. The Lord Sauron was interested in him for _days _before he even got here, and he finally did, all they did was _talk_? That's plain stupid, is what it is!"

Grishnákh rumbled warningly at this, but the wild Orcs paid him no heed, too fascinated as they were with their gossip.

* * *

_Ah, Crow-Man. How interesting you be. _The Great Eye glinted, but for once, dark speculation, rather than anger, swirled within. Dredging up the memory from the dark, twisted molasses of his mind, Sauron reveled over the remembrance of the moment he had first sensed the odd magical explosion emanating from Lossarnach. The first few Orc groups who'd been sent out to investigate it found nothing - until a strange Man had appeared. An interesting Man. A Man with a flock of Crebain as his pets and a wealth of power which made the attacking Orcs cringe.

That was when Sauron had grown truly curious. Rather than waiting to see if the Man was Dark and would come to him of his own volition, as was his wont, he'd decided to send out more Orcs to capture and interrogate the interesting new specimen. But oh, nothing could have prepared him for the treasure he'd found.

Nothing could have prepared him for his new slave.

Howling winds blew around the monstrous black mountain, a grotesque, eldritch noise reminiscent of twisted, triumphant laughter.

* * *

"A bad business altogether," another Orc grumbled, piggish eyes gleaming in the gloom of the night. Huddling closer to the campfire, he ignored the dark winds swirling outside the fortress walls. "There was just something about Crow-Man which _felt_ wrong from the very start. All creepy, and itchy, like he was sending fire-ants burrowing into our skin. It was like...like getting close to the _Witch King_," Hacking out a phlegmy gob, his voice dropped to an uneasy whisper at this admission. "None of us wanted to be the one to catch him cos of that creepy-crawly feeling all over him, but, well, orders are orders. But we never could land any blows on him anyway, and then there were those accursed Rangers who kept trying to protect him, and those stupid crows which kept on pecking and pecking at us, and the Crow-Man would just _glare _at you till you felt like you were going _mad_. I'd been hankering to tenderize him up a bit for that, tear that snobby glare off his face, suck the marrow from his bones, make him scream_,_ make him_..._"

* * *

_Minions these days_. Derision swept through Sauron in a thick, black wave. No intelligence, no discernment, no talent, no appreciation for _anything _except oafish brutality. Which was why the Crow-Man had been such a prize. _He _knew the value of patience and subtlety. A perfect slave, a perfect tool, with a mind as finely honed as a Morgul blade, all wrapped in a delightfully twisted package of rage and ambition and need. Far too valuable to damage through torture, far too useful to leave unused. The seething winds howled ever louder, as Sauron remembered with vicious glee precisely how he'd realized that the Crow-Man was more than he seemed – and it was all thanks to the two weakling Rangers. A single moment of carelessness, an overheard conversation, was all that was needed for them to betray the _'heir to Gondor'_ that they'd worked so hard to protect.

Cackling laughter rolled once more through the dark mass of broiling clouds as Sauron reveled in the delicious irony and absurdity of that thought. Heir to Gondor, indeed! Not for one moment had he believed the Crow-Man to be anything other than an imposter, but then, but then, all the incongruity surrounding the Crow-Man had made him think, made him suspicious. All the signs - the power the Orcs had complained about, the false identity as the heir – had pointed to a conspiracy in the making. And one sign had pointed to Saruman as the instigator - the Crebain.

That, more than anything else, had worried him enough that he'd decided to send out his most trusted Nazgul to capture the Crow-Man, and oh, how gleeful he was now at his decision. For it was then that the Crow-Man had shown his powers as a sorcerer. A sorcerer, insinuating his way into the ranks of Gondorian royalty! Sauron knew not how the Crow-Man had came to be so proficient in the lost Dark Arts; nor did he care. All that mattered was that the sorcerer had sworn allegiance to him, _him, _thereby allowing Sauron to cast his power over the sorcerer's mind. The sorcerer had submitted much more readily to Sauron's manipulations than Saruman ever did.

Indeed, Saruman's loyalty was exceedingly suspect at the moment. Even after the sorcerer had admitted to having stolen the Crebain from Saruman – and what talent, what daring that showed, to have one-upped the haughty Maia in such a fashion! – thereby acquitting Saruman of any involvement in this matter, Sauron still wondered at Saruman's motives at pitting Gandalf against Sauron via the palantir. Though he'd defeated Gandalf, the fight had inflicted quite some wounds upon his powers. Indeed, he was still healing, still incapable of exercising his mental powers to the fullest.

That had annoyed him exceedingly, especially when he'd been trying to ascertain the true nature of the sorcerer. It was quite fortunate that the sorcerer, for all his power, still appeared untrained in mental magic.

* * *

Grishnákh growled again. _Just how stupid are these wild Orcs, to be complaining about the Dark Lord right within his realm?_ He could only hope that they would stop while they were ahead – but no. He could see the squinty-eyed one take on an expression of sullen daring, as he grated out,

"Well, you know what _I _think? I think that maybe _He's_ going _soft_."

...And _that_ was his cue to act. Taking two steps forward, Grishnákh swung a meaty hand at the squinty-eyed idiot's head. He smiled in satisfaction to hear the yelp of pain and anger.

Twisting around, fists swinging, the unfortunate Orc howled as Grishnákh punched him in the head again, this time sending him flying. Eager for a brawl, his companions surged to their feet, only to falter at Grishnákh's snarl.

"Have you all no sense? Enough talk about the Man. You don't want to be catching _His_ attention, do ye?"

"Aw, it was just a joke!" an Orc whined. "And it's not like it wasn't all true, anyway!"

"You think that He'll care about what _you _think? Shut your traps if you know what's good for you!"

"Oh don't you be going all high and mighty!" the squinty-eyed Orc spoke up belligerently, nursing his wounded head. Muscling to the front of the rabble, he flexed his arms threateningly. "Leave us alone, will you? Just 'cos you're a lieutenant doesn't give you any leeway to order us around!"

Grishnákh snorted in disbelief. Well, he'd tried. Turning around, he threw over his shoulder one last warning."On your own head be it, then. _I'm_ not gonna help you outta this mess."

"Oh yea, like any of us wanted the likes of _you_ helping us!" The squinty-eyed Orc jeered at Grishnákh's retreating back. Seeing one of the famed soldiers in flight was well worth a sore head. One of his companions gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder as he smirked, "Well that's put him in his place, Urkkû!"

* * *

Fools. What utter, utter fools. For a moment, Sauron felt tempted to dismiss them as the Orc guards' problem, as usual. But today, he felt...rejuvenated. Like a young Maia, gorging himself upon his first blood sacrifice under the sadistically gleeful eyes of his mentor. Perhaps... perhaps it was time to reassert his dominance once more.

* * *

Urkkû turned and smiled viciously, as he tried to ignore the increasing headache. The soldier sure had hit his head hard. Resentment made him bite out, "Yea, the soldiers are all going soft, one way or another. Been too busy kissing up to the Dark Lord to do proper hard work like we do!"

His friends laughed raucously. Encouraged, he continued, squinting his eyes even more to ward off the pain, "Don't know why we follow all those stupid orders, really. We...ugh. _We're_ the ones who get killed, while...while the Dark Lord and his favorites are all sitting all nice and safe here. We should...ugh. We...we should..."

"Hey, what's wrong? You've gone all pasty looking," said another Orc. Urkkû didn't answer, caught up as he was in dizzying agony. Surely the soldier hadn't hit _that _hard? Gripping his head as the pain swirled higher, he was barely aware of the cries of alarm from his companions as blood began pouring out of his nose and ears. Trembling, sweating, he opened his mouth, trying to speak, to call for help, but all that came out was a low keening noise which steadily grew higher and higher.

* * *

Halfway through terrorizing the soldier guarding the fresh carrion – and oh, he could smell its sickening, rotten, _wonderful_ odor even through the storehouse door – Grishnákh paused and cocked his head to the side at the sound of rising screams. The voice making those screams were satisfyingly familiar. Huh. He hadn't expected his superiors to act so quickly...he blinked in surprise as the idiot Orc suddenly stumbled into view, blood pouring from every orifice on his head. It was a horrifying sight, made even more so by the lack of anyone inflicting the punishment.

Huh. That could only mean one thing.

The Dark Lord had come out to play.

Smirking, Grishnákh turned slightly more northwards and offered a deep, deferential bow in the general direction of the Great Eye.

Just in case the Dark Lord decided to play with him as well, he thought, suppressing the cold chill running down his back as other voices began to shriek in pain as well. Just in case the Lord hadn't appreciated his show of loyalty when castigating that idiot Orc.

Just in case.

* * *

Far above, the Great Eye glinted ever redder as it reached deep into the minds of the hapless Orcs, wrenching out yet another agonized scream.


	16. When Words are Mightier than Magic

"...and so it is _vitally_ important that he be rescued," Gandalf was exceedingly proud to say that none of his frustration leaked into his voice. Truly, the Steward could try the patience of an Ent! And Gandalf, well, even on a good day Gandalf had trouble being patient. That day, indeed, that entire _week _had not been good to the poor Istari. First having to deal with Saruman, and now with Denethor - Nienna save him from obdurate, snobbish leaders! Indeed, in some ways, Denethor was _worse_ than Saruman...

_Stop thinking about Saruman. Talking to Denethor requires all the concentration you have._

"Oh? And yet, you state no clear reason for this Man's _vital importance_," the biting sarcasm Denethor put into those two words was impossible to mistake. "Pray tell, why should I risk my men to retrieve this _crow-traveler _just to complete a quest which _you _were meant to undertake?"

For a moment, Gandalf entertained a wistful fantasy of dunking Denethor's head into a pail of good beer. That would either cool him down or get him drunk, and at this point, Gandalf would welcome either alternative as an improvement. Truly, Denethor had no need for guards or weapons - that acid tongue of his could send many a Man into tears! Gandalf could _swear_ that it rivalled Saruman's in obnoxiousness – a miraculous feat, as Saruman had had centuries to hone his wit. And at least Saruman was a friend, and so Gandalf was perfectly justified in having more tolerance for _his_ obnoxiousness – _stop __thinking about Saruman, Gandalf, and answer the Steward!_

"Because this is potentially a problem which could affect us _all_. Indeed, the situation is already changing. Increased Orc attacks, mass Crebain nesting all over the countryside, dark winds sweeping out from Mordor...all evil portents of events yet to come, with the _crow-traveler _as the clear instigator!"

"Clear to _your_ eyes, perhaps. Less clear to mere mortals like me. After all, _we_ have not the guidance of the Valar that _you_ purportedly claim to enjoy. Surely, you must understand," Denethor spread his hands in a mocking gesture of supplication, "that all those signs you refer to as evil portents heralding the _crow-traveler's _arrival are, to us, signs to fortify the city's defense and gather every able-bodied warrior here, rather than send them out on suicidal quests to rescue suspicious men."

"I understand your concern," said Gandalf, smiling through clenched teeth. Annoying, obnoxious, rude, _Saruman-like_... "However, surely the wishes of the Valar take precedence. There is too much that is unknown about this Man to leave him in the clutches of the Dark Power. Indeed," he added in a burst of inspiration, "I commend the two Rangers currently in pursuit of him for their recognition of the gravity of the situation. Their long association over the past few weeks with him has clearly impressed upon them his importance and–"

"Of course," Denethor's smile was just as false as Gandalf's. "I, too, admire their..._initiative. _Though, I _do_ wonder at their defiance against Ranger Addroc's order to return to Minas Tirith. Clearly, some disciplinary action is in order," Blinking in dismay, Gandalf tried to interrupt, but Denethor just raised his voice and steamrollered on. "After all, it is to their own benefit that they learn to not risk their lives and that of those around them. Truly, they should understand that, except for _certain _egotistic parties, there are many here who would value their lives over that of an insignificant outsider. They should also understand that their duty is, first and foremost, to Gondor itself! Unlike _certain _travelers, who only visit Gondor when they are in need of my aid, we are _always..._"

_Oh Nienna._ Gandalf groaned silently as he recognized all the warning signs of an impending rant of Denethorian proportions, which was sure to be liberally sprinkled with sneers and mocking remarks about Gandalf himself. Shaking his head, he settled in to wait, letting the unpleasant words wash over him like mud off a rock. It was the only thing to do; indeed, it was the safest thing he _could _do, as his blunt tongue and excitable temper could not parry in kind. Gandalf had, so far, been _trying_ to be polite – though he suspected he'd mostly came across as stuffy – but the hostile diplomacy that Denethor so excelled at, with its subtle dance of insults and nuances, had never been Gandalf's forte. Though, indeed, he defied any diplomat to keep his temper in the face of the Obnoxious Irritation that was Denethor. Not even Saruman could do so _and_ _why was he thinking about Saruman again?_

Oh, but who was he fooling? Worry for Saruman had plagued him since he left Isengard, rendering him far more short-tempered and too distracted to properly deal with Denethor. Though Saruman had insisted that he was well on the road to recovery, Gandalf _knew_ that he was not speaking the complete truth. Lying in the large white bed as he insisted – nay, practically _forced _Gandalf to leave, Saruman had looked frail and old and disturbingly vulnerable.

Gandalf had to admit, that it was at times like those that Saruman's infernal pride irritated him to no end. _I could easily lend my powers to healing him quicker before I left, if he would just accept my help!_ But _no_, Saruman the White was too prideful to admit to his pains, talk about what had happened, or even show a smidgen of gratitude to Gandalf for abandoning his quest willy-nilly just to tend to Saruman!

Thinking of his quest again brought an even deeper frown to his wrinkled face. Gandalf couldn't really blame Denethor for refusing his request, not when Gandalf himself knew next to nothing about the _crow-traveler_. Lady Nienna's message to him regarding the man he was supposed to rescue from the Enemy had been unusually vague and confusing. A traveler, headed to Minas Tirith, who reared Crebain as pets? Was he an ally of the Dark? And if that was the case, surely Saruman would have been a better candidate for the mission rather than Gandalf? After all, Isengard was closer to Minas Tirith than was the Shire. Also, Saruman was level-headed and self-possessed, unlike Gandalf who positively _loathed_ the Dark with a deep, burning hatred and had no qualms about making his hostility known.

However, Gandalf had known that it was not his place to question the Valar, and thus, he could only hope for the best and set out immediately for Gondor. And it was good that he did, for when Saruman was attacked, Gandalf had just reached Fangorn and so could rush to Saruman's aid with a mere two days of travel. Had Gandalf not been there, Radagast, whose dwelling was the closest to Saruman's, would probably have been the wizard tasked with travelling to Isengard. And. Well. Gandalf held deep affection for Radagast, but he knew just how little interest the other wizard had for anything which wasn't a plant or an animal. Poor Saruman, fitting into neither category, would have been fared ill in the absent-minded Brown Wizard's hands.

Of course, technically, Gandalf was not at liberties to rush to Isengard. He was on a Valar-sent quest, after all! And perhaps, Gandalf _would _have forcibly set aside his affection and worry for his old friend, and continued his quest – had his instincts not told him that he _needed _to help Saruman.

For Gandalf, more than any of the other wizards, trusted his instincts. This trait was looked on in bewilderment by the other wizards – indeed, Saruman often took him to task for it – but Gandalf _knew_, that even if he could not predict their consequences until much, much later, his instincts would always turn out to be right. He _knew,_ that even if he couldn't explain his hasty decisions to his skeptical contemporaries, that even if his actions ran counter to every bit of logic that his mind told him to follow, his instincts invariably led him true.

And so, Gandalf never hesitated to follow his heart. He'd followed it when it'd told him to cultivate the odd little Halfling creatures as acquaintances, and gained the most precious friends he could possibly treasure from that decision. He'd followed it when it'd told him that Sauron had returned, and so had been well-prepared to fight Sauron and chase him out of Dol Guldor. Indeed, the only time he ever _considered _following his head instead of his heart, was when his instincts told him to ignore the increasingly Dark behavior of Saruman.

Gandalf couldn't pinpoint the first moments the seeds of suspicion against Saruman had sprouted in his mind. Perhaps it had been when Saruman had shown his opposition to a direct attack against Sauron. Perhaps it had begun even earlier, when Saruman had began studying the dark arts, purportedly to gain better knowledge of Sauron's weaknesses. But no matter the source, Gandalf had begun to wonder, and to suspect that something was amiss.

Gandalf had begun to fear that Saruman...was slowly being corrupted by the Dark.

But oh, he held back from questioning Saruman openly, because his instincts told him not to. He just couldn't explain _why_ – after all, logic was, for once, on his side, and every sign he saw was screaming at him to be wary of Saruman. But somehow...he knew, just _knew _that he was not meant to confront Saruman just yet, if ever. He _knew, _that he could not be responsible for splitting apart the White Council and weakening its influence. He _knew, _that Saruman still had a role to play in the grand scheme of things, and for Gandalf to meddle would change things for the worse. And so Gandalf waited, and watched, and concentrated his energies on fighting the clearer evils of the world.

But now, but now that Saruman had been attacked by the Enemy and nearly killed – indeed, the wounds that Saruman had incurred would have been fatal for most mortal beings – Gandalf began to hope that this was what his instincts had been trying to tell him. He began to hope that Saruman was either innocent, or still redeemable of his sins. He began to believe again that he was right to trust that Saruman would hold true to the Light, and would not betray his fellow Maiar.

He hoped...he prayed...that he was not wrong in this. For if Gandalf's instincts were right...if his old friend was truly corrupted...it would be more than Gandalf could bear.

"...appear quite fatigued. Perhaps you will recuperate your strength after a rest. Allow me to summon a servant to lead you to your bedchambers."

Blinking in surprise, Gandalf roused himself from his thoughts. "Oh? Oh! No. No. I thank you, but there is no need..."

"Oh no. I insist." The unyielding tone in Denethor's voice brooked no objection. For a moment, Gandalf thought of objecting anyway, for form's sake, but unfortunately, Denethor was right. He _did _feel rather tired and sick, to the point that he'd been forced to continue asking for Denethor's help rather than continue his quest himself. Taking care of a patient as unmanageable as Saruman had clearly taken a hard toll on Gandalf; indeed, he'd been so exhausted by the end of it that his last day at Isengard was just a blur. There was a faint niggling sense of _something_ having happened, but Gandalf was having trouble remembering...he grimaced as his headache abruptly sharpened. By the Valar, he definitely needed more rest.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Steward Denethor. I hope to continue this discussion later," he finally said. Standing up on tired legs, he slowly followed the silent servant out of the throne chamber.

_a/n: Ok, interludes are all over. Next chapter: Snape!_


	17. The Road to Hell

_"My Lord. It is an honor to be in your presence."_

* * *

Severus was riding.

Wizards were hardy creatures; they could withstand and recover from harsh injuries, both mental and physical, much more easily than the average Muggle. This had stood Severus in good stead in the past; he did not know if it would be enough now.

* * *

_"Honored?" The loathsome Eye was mockingly amused. Half dangling off the back of a mad-eyed horse, his fingers encased in a Dementor's screaming face and his hair caught again in the grip of a Dementor's enraged hand, Severus felt terribly, horribly vulnerable. "A fine way you have of showing it thus far."_

* * *

Flattery. Fear. Cunning. Ambition. The traits of a perfect servant. A servant too valuable to waste on torture and experimentation. He could not pretend loyalty; not to the Dark Lord of his old world, nor this one in the new. But he _could _convince both of his deference, of the benefits of leaving him alive and free. He could make them believe that his presence in their enemies' camp would benefit them, regardless of his personal agenda.

Severus knew well how to tempt a Dark Lord. He had honed this persona for over the past few decades, after all.

It was a skill which he'd not thought he'd have to use again.

* * *

_"Attacking my servants, little Crow-Man? Such impudence begs for punishment."_

_Chittering laughter from the monsters around him. They pressed closer to the horse, eyes flickering ominously in the dark._

* * *

The Crebain fluttered around him, preening his hair, cooing into his ears, trying all they could to distract him from his thoughts. He stroked one gently, rubbing his long fingers against its silky warm feathers, feeling the softly vibrating thrum of its heart under his hand. Precious little creatures. He remembered how, after particularly torturous sessions with the Dark Lord, he would indulge himself in more time spent with Albus. The warmth of Albus' rooms, the fragrance of the hot tea that they would share between them, the gentleness in Albus' eyes and voice and smile would do much to calm him down.

Albus wasn't here. But the crows were. And their eyes were just as comforting, just as loving, as that of his old friend.

It was a decent substitute.

* * *

_"My apologies, my Lord; I'd reacted thoughtlessly to their attacks. Their presence threatened my plans." _

_"Petty little plans of a petty little man," The monstrous Eye was smug, dismissive. It gave no hint as to its own desires, no leverage for Severus to use. But then the voice changed, and turned speculative. "Or would it be wrong to call one such as you a 'man'? Little...sorcerer." _

* * *

The warriors' eyes were worried and wary. He did not care. They were nothing to him, strange men who'd for some unknown reason had decided to bring him along on their travels. He had not cared much about gaining their friendship even before the Dementor's attack; he cared even less now. Let them make of him what they would; he'd been foolish to have thought that they could pose a true threat or aid to him.

* * *

_"You have guarded yourself most assiduously over the past few years. Such intrigue you hold, such mystery you bring." __The sense of menace from the Eye intensified, battering against Severus' fear-weakened mind. "And I. Loathe. Mysteries."_

* * *

Severus smiled, a private, bitter smile, and rode on.

* * *

_"What mystery I have, what skill I possess, I gladly lay bare before you now. It will be my privilege to serve you, and only you." A pause, as Severus swallowed, then forced out the word from between gritted teeth. _

_"Master."_

* * *

Finally.

_Finally_.

_Finally, _they were _home_. Though it had been a mere few months since they had seen the towering walls of Minas Tirith, the experiences they'd undergone in those months, some tragic, many dangerous, but all so incredibly _unbelievable, _made the familiar sights of his city all the more precious. Rercyn suppressed the wholly ridiculous urge to fall to his knees and kiss the earth, and instead waited impatiently for Eorel to finish speaking with the patrol guard. _What could possibly be taking him so long? _He frowned grumpily at the young guard who was throwing suspicious glares at him and Raza, silently willing for him to back down and let their group past. _So close to home, so close to safety; just a few minutes more and we can let go of the fear..._

"Rercyn," Eorel said brusquely, cantering his horse back to his partner's side. "I've asked for some guards to keep an eye on both of you. I'm going in to seek an audience with the Steward."

Rercyn reared back as if physically struck. Staring at Eorel's stubborn, unforgiving face, his mouth opened in a hiss of protest; he watched as Eorel tensed up, readying himself for the arguments that Rercyn wanted to throw at him. Eorel was being unreasonably mistrustful again, they couldn't bar Raza from entering his own city, they couldn't treat Raza like a common criminal, he'd thought that Eorel was softening, he thought that Eorel was starting to believe in Raza, he'd thought that Eorel _understood..._

Beside him, Raza shifted uncomfortably on his horse. His eyes were dead, his shoulders slumped; he had not shown a smidgen of spirit since his capture. Rercyn would fain have welcomed the old, cantankerous, miserable stranger back; this one showed less emotion, less personality than his little crow pets.

Two weeks ago, he would have fought for Raza. Two weeks ago, he would have argued against Eorel's high-handedness. Two weeks ago, he would have pointed to the heroism of the man, the goodness of the crows, as clear signs of Raza being the prophesied king, battling against the forces of evil to wield his power for the good. Eorel saw only the bad in Raza, saw it and fought against the idea of Raza being the king, because a king was expected to be kind and just and charismatic and perfect, and Raza showed none of that. But Rercyn knew that dreams rarely matched up to reality, that demanding too much led to disillusionment, that unconditional acceptance was required to support a king who was merely a man, a great man but a flawed man, and that Raza, though imperfect, was already kingly in all the ways that counted.

Two weeks ago, he knew all this. He _still_ knew all this. Raza was a great man, a great hero, and his escape from Mordor only made him all the more great.

Slowly, Rercyn closed his mouth, biting down on his tongue so hard he drew blood. Silently, he turned his head away to examine Raza's stiff profile, listening to the clip-clop of Eorel's horse as his partner rode through the gates of Minas Tirith.

* * *

_"Your eagerness to pledge yourself to me is all too pleasing. How upsetting to think that I have never seen you before your little attempt for power."_

_Sweat trickled down Severus' stiff face. His head was aching, his hand slowly blackening. But he nearly had the Eye convinced. Nearly. Nearly. He could not stop now. "I...I had not wished to approach you...before I could secure proof of my usefulness. Master," he rasped out._

_The laughter which greets his excuse was obscenely evil, yet oddly satisfied. The monster's final judgment upon him felt, paradoxically, like the worst condemnation and the highest praise._

_"Liar. Such a little liar."_

* * *

Eorel's fondest desire right now was to head to the nearest tavern and order a drink. No, two drinks. Or make that three. Or make that a drink for every time he and Rercyn had come close to death over the past few weeks. Fighting with Orcs, fleeing from Nazgul, heading straight towards _Mordor_, of all places...Eorel _deserved _to get drunk. But of course, he couldn't, because now he had to explain precisely why he and Rercyn had seen fit to disobey orders for the sake of a scruffy stranger. Eorel didn't think he'd ever been as stunned in his life to find Raza unconscious in the forest a bare few miles away from Mordor's doors. But of course Rercyn hadn't stopped to question that at all, and insisted instead that it was more sign of his greatness.

Sometimes Eorel wondered if his partner had been dropped on his head when he was born.

Thankfully, however, Rercyn wasn't _wholly_ without caution, and had agreed to keeping Raza outside the city walls until the Steward could be fully apprised of all the happenings. Eorel, on the other hand, somewhat regretted his impulsive urge to take charge. He could just imagine the incredulous looks he would be greeted with once he finished his story.

"...and after the thin dirty stranger brought me back to life using herbs and powers only a king could wield, we decided to bring him and his evil-looking but actually very adorable crows to you, but midway through the journey he was kidnapped by Nazgul and brought nearly all the way to Mordor, only he somehow escaped or was set free, even though no man has ever came back from Mordor alive, but please understand that we aren't trying to bring enemies into the most important city of Gondor, my partner believes that he's the prophesied king, just very disagreeable and suspicious-looking, so he absolutely refuses to kill or bind the man, and really, it's better that we bring him here rather than let an unknown powerful candidate for the throne roam our lands..."

Eorel really hoped that the Steward would allow him one last pint of beer before declaring him insane and throwing him into the dungeons.

* * *

_"I would never dare to lie to one as great as you, Master. My only wish to obey your commands."_

_"Perhaps. However." A cruel pause, held like a taut thread through the air. "A stay within my lands would be a better insurance of your loyalty."_

* * *

"Steward Denethor is very busy. You will have to wait like everyone else."

"But...no, this is _urgent _news. The Steward needs to be notified of this _immediately_."

"Many urgent issues take the Steward's attention daily. Unless you can provide details as to how your news, in particular, takes precedence, you'll have to come back later."

"It's confidential! I need to make the report directly to the Steward, and the sooner the better..."

"How many times must you be told? The Steward is a busy man, and people can't just barge in to talk to him whenever they want. Now leave, or..."

Blinking in curiosity, Gandalf opened the door to the waiting room, only to see an angrily gesticulating Ranger standing before the disdainful valet and bored Tower Hall guards. Glancing from one to the other, he felt a corner of his mouth dip in instinctive disapproval. He knew that Denethor had less respect for his Rangers than the previous Steward, but surely he had no need to show his disregard so blatantly?

"Tomorrow afternoon. That is the absolute earliest you might have an audience with the Steward," said the valet, turning away from the red-faced Ranger in clear dismissal, only to bestow an unimpressed look upon Gandalf. "Lord wizard. I hope you rested well. The Steward missed your presence," and here a sneer was given, as if to emphasize precisely how insincere that claim was, "in the morning's meeting. Sadly, he is much occupied for the rest of today; perhaps you would care to seek an audience tomorrow?"

_What the...? _Gandalf was left open-mouthed at the young whippersnapper's audacity. _To order about a wizard...to dismiss __**me**__... why, I ought to..._but before he could marshal his thoughts, the valet had slipped back into the Tower Hall. Gandalf stared at the closed door, then at the stone-faced guards, and finally at the young Ranger, who, he was distantly amused to note, was literally frothing at the mouth in frustration. Gandalf felt strongly tempted to join him, or even better, slam open the door to the Tower Hall and demand respect...but no. He might be a powerful wizard in his own right, but that only meant he had to be all the more careful about undermining the authority of other rulers. He did not like Denethor, and loathed the thought of being so snubbed, but he still respected his talents as a leader and a principled fighter against the Dark. It would not do to create enemies due to little, petty acts.

Holding that thought tightly to himself, he turned around, only to have his eye catch again onto the dejected form of the Ranger. Feeling a surge of pity for the youth, Gandalf strode to his side to give him a friendly clap on the shoulder. "Cheer up; mayhap you'll receive your audience with him tomo..."

Gandalf froze as his hand touched the young man's tunic.

_No, it couldn't be._

He clutched convulsively at the cloth.

_He was mistaken._

It was there.

_Sauron's power. _

_Sauron's stink._

Unheeding of the wary eyes of the Ranger, he seemed to grow larger, greater. His voice, powerful and terrible, whipped through the air like a weapon.

"How came you, Ranger of Ithilien, to be so touched by the Dark?"

* * *

_"I-I would not be of much use to you, if I were to stay. Please," and the panic was feigned for the Eye's enjoyment and yet all too real, "Please, tell me what you desire, and I will show you how I may achieve it." _

_The Eye laughed again. "I desire chaos. I desire death. I desire victory, and now, I desire your loyalty. Can you bring me all that, and more? Or was that what you'd planned to take for yourself, when you become king of that wretchedly pathetic little kingdom?" _

* * *

Out beyond the city walls, Severus sucked in a choked gasp as the magic swirled around him. _Oh Merlin, _he thought with grumpy despair, just before the wizard came striding out of the city gate with righteous fire burning in his eyes, _not __**another **__one..._

At least this one was a Light wizard; Severus could feel the sizzling bright power whip and snap against the Dark residue which had clung to him like a second skin ever since his talk with the Eye. Severus closed his eyes at the painful, purging sensation it created. He opened them in a hurry, however, when the wizard started booming at him in a commanding voice, looking fit to kill.

* * *

_King? King? What on earth was it talking about? No matter; if this was what it was interested in, this was what Severus could use. "I will carve power from the fools who wield it, and demand their obedience and reverence as my due. I will lay its riches and its weapons at your feet, Master, should you deign to accept my small offerings."_

* * *

The Steward Denethor was used to dealing with many kinds of problems in his reign. And yet nothing, _nothing_, was quite as irritating as dealing with the Mithrandir Migraine. He poked his overlong nose into business which was not his concern, he showed up where no one ever wanted him to be, and he created chaos which somehow always ended up as Denethor's responsibility to resolve. This occasion, however, was shaping up to be one of his worst visits thus far. His persistent demands that Denethor send out manpower to retrieve some ridiculous _crow-traveler, _his arrogant assumptions that Denethor would be some _puppet _at his beck and call, but worst of all, his refusal to help in curing Finduilas or even easing her pain...

Shaking his head, Denethor walked on at a quick, though firm pace, banishing his beloved wife from his mind for the time being. Though he would fain be at her side now, offering what comfort and care he could to her wellbeing, he would have to get rid of the Mithrandir Migraine first. The violent surge in power which had so disturbed his work was bad enough, but the reports implied that Mithrandir was actually _manhandling _one of his Rangers in his rage. And while some of the Rangers were uncouth and ruffian-like, they were still _his _Rangers, under _his _jurisdiction!

Striding up to the city gate, which was in a state of chaos after Gandalf had, typically, breezed right through without going through proper protocol, Denethor calmed down the guards and restored order with a few sharp words. Then, with an entourage around him, he waited for the gates to open, a sharp glare ready upon his craggy face.

* * *

_"Indeed? And should you think of rebellion against the Dark, of strengthening the city defenses to their benefit?_

_Severus infused his voice with hatred. "I have no reason to help pathetic creatures such as them!"A pause, for his voice to change to reverent. It is odd, he thought distantly, of how much easier the words of his enslavement rolled off his tongue with practice._

* * *

"You are the Crow-Traveler, I presume," Gandalf said coldly. That this servant of Sauron would have the daring to come so close to the stronghold of Gondor...that he would flaunt his Master's power so openly...what was Lady Nienna _thinking_, to have Gandalf go on a quest to find a man like _him!_ Dimly, he registered hearing horrified whispering from the two Rangers nearby, "You told _him? _Why _him?" _"I _didn't, _he just grabbed me and shook me and stomped out here! It was like watching a Valar-cursed bloodhound on a scent!" but he dismissed it as unimportant. All his focus had narrowed down to the tired man before him, whose darkness lit up the air around him like a beacon, and surely when Lady Nienna had commanded him to find the Crow-Man she'd meant for Gandalf to destroy him...except she hadn't said so. _Find the crow-traveler _could _potentially _mean _Annihilate, Destroy, and Rid the World of Crow Evil, _but Gandalf had lived too long, dealt with evil in too many forms, to make an important decision like ending a life just willy-nilly, no matter how much he desired it, no matter how much he hated it, for threatening his world, for killing his allies, for tempting Saruman...

No, he would talk to him. Find out his secrets, uncover his goals. And then, and _then..._he would decide.

* * *

_"My only desire is to serve you, Master."_

* * *

"Back away from the city walls, _Crow-Traveler_," the wizard's growl was impressively frightening, and so was the light and sparks which were appearing around him in a whirling spiral of wind. Raza yelped and tried to stay seated as his horse backed up, snorting in alarm. Unfortunately, his focus on the horse, which was, in Rercyn's opinion, a perfectly reasonable thing to focus on, only appeared to make the wizard even angrier.

"Why have you come here? Where are you from? What tie binds those crows to you?" And really, those are all questions which Rercyn wanted answered too, and any sane Ranger would have already taken the fury in the wizard's voice as their cue to back away _very slowly _by now, except sometime during the past few weeks Rercyn appeared to have discarded his common sense and opted to feel instead a protective surge of indignation on behalf of Raza, doubts and suspicions be damned.

"He does not speak our language, lord wizard," he called out, trying to alleviate the situation, but all that happened was that the wizard became even _more _wild-eyed, snarling wildly about the Black Speech and Mordor and Sauron and _really, _did the wizard plan to call the Enemy's attention down onto their head by blandishing his name about so loudly? Rercyn had already had too many close brushes with the Dark for him to need another and it was that knee-jerk fear at hearing the Dark Lord's name which caused him to lose control and snap out, "He is _not _of the Dark, he is an honored guest, and you have no right to attack him at all!" And the wizard was swelling up in enraged offence and Eorel was tugging frantically on to his arm and nearly wailing, "Oh oh oh shut up shutup shutup_shutup_" and Rercyn was seeing his life flash before his eyes and really, his Steward's voice was the most beautiful thing in the world because it called out at this very moment to demand,

"What in Valar's name is going on here?"

* * *

_"Very well then. You will do this, and pray that it succeeds." The voice did not even need to threaten; the consequences of failure were all around him in that barren wasteland, pressing close by with death dripping from their claws and glee in their eyes._

* * *

There is little Eorel could say, except that this was a mess of epic proportions, and really, it was not _his _fault that everyone in the world had decided to go mad. But though he hadn't done anything to cause it, it was clearly up to him to end it, and so, falling onto one knee, he bent his head to his Steward and played the most powerful card he had, the card he'd thought of once he'd talked to Addroc and which he'd really planned to save for last, "Milord, I present to you Raza, a powerful healer who we hope may cure the Lady Finduilas' illness."

_And really,_ Eorel thought resignedly, as he waited a beat, then two, before the excitement started all over again, _it's hardly the most ideal way of declaring the arrival of a potential king. But that's all they're going to get if they insist on not doing things the way I planned them to be._

* * *

_"However," and oh, how Severus loathed that word, "however, if your obedience cannot be secured through a stint in Mordor, another method is required."_

_And with that, the mark of Sauron began to sear in his mind._


	18. Them's Fighting Words

Silence spread throughout the Tower Hall long after Eorel had ceased to speak. From his vantage point kneeling in front of the Steward's Chair, Rercyn chanced a tentative glance around. What he saw did not reassure him in the least. Raza knelt beside him, face blank and back hunched; after the initial surprise he'd shown upon being confronted by the wizard, he'd sunk back into a maddeningly unhelpful apathy. The Crebain had been barred from entering the castle; if he angled his head just right, he could see their fluttering silhouettes outside the Tower Hall's high windows, casting ominous shadows onto the people below. The wizard, while quiet, was staring at Raza with an expression which made Rercyn exceedingly uneasy; his face had run through a gauntlet of emotions, all of them complex and none of them good, upon the revelation of Raza's possible identity as the king of Gondor. And as for the Steward...Rercyn took a quick look upwards, winced and focused his attention intently upon the grey flagstones beneath his knees. The hopeful gleam which had appeared in his eyes upon Eorel's dramatic announcement outside the city gates had all but faded into steely anger at the end of the Rangers' strange, fantastical and frankly unbelievable tale.

The small hope Rercyn had nursed, for all this to be resolved quickly and neatly and happily, died a guttering death. The silence lengthened, as thin and brittle as winter's black ice stretching from the shores of Nindalf. He was both painfully grateful and terrified out of his wits when the Steward finally broke the unbearable silence with a rasping growl.

"Ranger Eorel. And Ranger Rercyn." Dimly, Rercyn wondered how the Steward could make saying their names sound as if he was spitting out the darkest filth. "You. You _disgust _me."

Rercyn's throat clenched up. "We had to!" he wanted to cry out. "It was the right thing to do!" The words fluttered upon his frozen tongue, as delicate as butterfly wings, and just as useless. He did not dare look up; he did not want to see how well the expression on the Steward's face could possibly match the venom in his voice.

"Begging your pardon, milord," and good Eorel, brave Eorel spoke up in a clear voice, with only the smallest tremble in it to show his fear, "All we have spoken of has been the truth, and nothing but the truth, and everything we did was in good faith, with the purest intentions. This I swear upon my honor, milord."

"Good faith," the Steward repeated. "Good faith. You bring to me this travesty of a tale, claiming to me that you have found the heir to Gondor." He laughed mirthlessly. "Tell me, Rangers. What do you know of Halen?"

"...Councilor Halen, milord? We..." Eorel paused to swallow. "Only that there was an attempted coup, a few months ago. And Councilor...I mean, not Councilor, just...Halen had been the leader. But..."

"Indeed. He came to me with the same claim that you Rangers have. He showed to me, much as you two did, an heir to Gondor. But there, the similarities end." The Steward leaned forward in his throne. His eyes seemed to burn into Rercyn's head. "He showed to me a man in his prime, strong, powerful, charismatic. He showed to me a man who seemed a great warrior, a wise discourser, a principled leader. He challenged my rule with the existence of this man, this prophesied king, and swayed nearly half my court over to his views. Indeed, for a time, he even made me doubt myself, when he exhibited the man's _magical skills_, supposedly a legacy of the royal blood which flowed through his veins. And yet," he laughed again, the sound chilling and angry, "And yet, in the end, I did not accept that man as king, for we found him to be nothing more than an imposter of the worst kind. So tell me now, Ranger Eorel, Ranger Rercyn. Halen brought me a man who seemed like a king, and _you, _you bring me _this._" His widely sweeping arm gesture seemed to encompass everything that Raza lacked._ "_What makes your mockery of a claim any less false than his?"

Rercyn closed his eyes, and tried to stop his tremble. _Say something! _He tried to urge Eorel. But Eorel remained silent and still. He had never believed that Raza was the king, after all.

It was on Rercyn's head to defend the claim. It was his responsibility. He breathed in sharply, shallowly, and looked up to meet the Steward's eyes.

"Begging your pardon, milord, but Eorel does not believe it either." _Let at least one of us be absolved. _"It was my faith, and my decisions which led to our bringing Raza to Minas Tirith. I believe that Raza is our king, for I was privileged to witness him unleashing the full power of kingsfoil. Eorel had been dying; an Orc sword had pierced clean through his chest, and blood had been bubbling through his lips. Raza brought him back, even as his breath was fading from the world. It was Raza's hands, and Raza's power, and Raza's use of kingsfoil alone that closed up the wound and healed Eorel to the point that you see now, healthy and hale and alive. I know of no man who could have healed a chest wound of that caliber; I know of no man who could have used kingsfoil in that manner. This I swear upon _my _honor, milord." He stared intently at the Steward, willing for him to believe the truth of his words; the Steward stared back, unimpressed. He did not look like he'd been convinced at all; with a sinking heart, Rercyn watched helplessly as his mouth opened, as he began to speak...

"Impossible." The wizard broke in. Rercyn jerked in surprise; his focus had narrowed down to the Steward alone, and he'd completely forgotten about the others in the room. The Steward's face showed keen annoyance at the interruption, but before he could take control of the conversation again, the wizard ploughed on. "It is ridiculous to think that his healing of the Ranger can be anything more than a ploy to enter Gondor. That man is no _king_."

"And how would _you _know?" snapped the Steward instinctively, immediately grimacing at his own outburst. Rercyn couldn't help noting, however, that he seemed rather more chagrined at his own loss of self-control than apologetic for his hostility towards the wizard. Smoothing out his expression into a semblance of calm, he said more quietly, though no less commandingly, "In fact, none of this concerns you, Mithrandir. Leave; we do not need your services any longer, now that we know what we are dealing with."

"I cannot comply, Denethor," the wizard said, bristling like a cat. "I had been tasked with finding him, and so it is my responsibility to bring him before the White Council."

"It was _my _Rangers who found him, and _my_ city which he attempted to take," said the Steward, biting off each word.

_"You_ had never agreed to aid me in looking for the man. The only reason your Rangers found and took charge of him was through sheer coincidence, and later they did it as blatant disobedience against your orders. Would you take back your assertion that this man has nothing to do with Gondor _now?"_

"The disobedience of the Rangers is a matter subject to my discretion, as is the presence of this imposter. Your opinions hold no weight whatsoever in either issue!"

They stared at each other, cold and angry and terrible in their hostility. For a moment, Rercyn had the oddest impression that this was not about Raza; it was a feud between strong men, a clash between powerful leaders; one the Lord of the greatest city of Man, proud and secure within his own territory; another the Istari of tremendous power, determined and backed by the strength of the Valar. The tension rose, keen as a knife scraping across Rercyn's nerves; involuntarily, he let out a whimper of fear.

The moment broke at his whimper, soundlessly and swiftly with nothing to mark its passing. Looking away from the Steward to study Raza, the wizard said firmly, "I would never presume to interfere in normal matters under your jurisdiction, Denethor. However, this man is far from normal. That he walked away from Mordor unscathed shows that the prisons of men would be wholly insufficient to keep him subdued."

"We know not what happened in between his capture and his rescue," said the Steward, no less firmly. "Men can be as resourceful and as gifted as any other being in Middle-Earth, and I feel confident that, given my _own_ resources and gift of Sight, my abilities in containing him are as effective..." His clear voice continued to ring out through the Tower Hall, but Rercyn had stopped listening, temporarily stunned by receiving unwitting confirmation from the Steward himself regarding certain speculations which had held the Rangers' attention through many a cold, boring night. The people of Gondor had long wondered at instances in which the Steward had made inexplicable decisions which turned out miraculously well; rumors abound had ranged from his receiving enlightenment from the Valar themselves to his being a cunning sorcerer of evil – the latter theory obviously a spawn of his dissidents. The Steward himself had never bothered to explain; while he had not hidden his abilities, neither had he offered any detail about them. To hear him speak of it, even if only in passing, felt strangely humbling.

"Do not let pride guide your decisions, Denethor," said the wizard, snapping Rercyn back to his surroundings. Looking up, he watched warily as the wizard took a threatening step forward. "This is far more important than a threat to your rule. Indeed, he could be a threat to the land and to the kingship itself!"

"All of which are problems which I deal with more than you have, and so know more of than you do," said the Steward, with eyes as cold as chips of flinty ice.

"Can you not see _reason_?" said the wizard, his voice rising into a shout. "I know more about the heir to Gondor than you would..." he cut himself off abruptly, and passed a quick hand over his eyes. Not quick enough, however, for Rercyn to not see the exhaustion which had appeared for a brief moment upon his features. _Wizards get tired too? _Rercyn felt faintly astonished at this revelation; he'd not thought that wizards were vulnerable to the common weaknesses which plagued normal men. Before he could explore this thought, however, the wizard resumed speaking more calmly.

"This is a man who has bound to himself the most hated spies of the Dark, walked into the valleys of Mordor and out again, and caught the attention of the Valar themselves. His goal to secure the kingship of Gondor may be a matter of your concern, but his methods of attaining his goal are a problem requiring _my _attention. Yours is a great gift of Sight, Denethor, but your men lack that gift, and an ally to Sauron such as he is powerful, far too powerful for them to handle. I cannot, in good conscience, leave him here unattended."

The Steward's lips pressed together tightly; he looked as if he was tasting something bitter upon hearing the wizard's words. Looking down upon Raza's bent form, his face grew grimmer at the dark man's unresponsiveness. _Do something to prove your innocence! _Rercyn wanted to urge Raza, feeling a sudden surge of helplessness. _We cannot protect you like this!_ But no. His inability or unwillingness to speak or even move only served to underscore his mystery. Rercyn wanted to weep in despair; he opened his mouth, wanting to repeat his convictions of Raza's goodness.

"Begging your pardon, lord wizard, but that can't be true," Eorel's voice suddenly piped up. Jerking in surprise, Rercyn looked over to see a curious expression on his partner's face. "If he was as powerful as you make him out to be, he would hardly have let himself look like such a suspicious character." There was a skeptical pause. "I mean, it seems a bit silly, for him to go through the whole rigmarole of getting caught by the Enemy and all, since that hasn't done him any good?"

The wizard eyed him dubiously. "Your partner says that you don't believe in his claims. Have you changed your mind?"

Eorel dropped his eyes to the ground. Without looking at anyone, he said slowly, "Rercyn thinks that he is the heir to Gondor. The Steward thinks that he is an imposter to the crown. You think that he is a servant of the Enemy. I think...that he's just a powerful healer who's managed to get on everyone's bad side."

There was another pause.

"Also, I really _do _think that he stands a chance of healing Lady Finduilas."

The wizard's lip curled. He said coolly, "Unnecessary. Now that we have found the _crow-traveler,_ I would be more than happy to aid the Lady's return to health." There was a leading pause. "And after that, bring the _crow-traveler _before the White Council for judgment."

_Ohhh. _With a nervous thrill, Rercyn watched as the Steward's eyes narrowed at the blatant bribe-cum-blackmail. _Bad move, lord wizard. Bad move._

A few more rounds of shouting matches later, Raza was installed under heavy guard in the biggest House of Healing in Minas Tirith.


	19. Imperfections of a Ruler

_People. _Severus turned around slowly, looking with hooded eyes upon the mass of unwashed humanity crammed together in one of the most medieval-looking Muggle hospitals he'd ever seen in his life. _Too many people. _His thought processes felt sluggish and useless; he stared dully at the fistful of familiar-looking herbs thrust under his nose and the frantically gesticulating warrior at his side. _I wish they'd go away. _He turned away from the expectant eyes of the ruler.

He was tired.

* * *

"H-he's probably just temporarily incapacitated, milord, we've had a terrible journey. I'm sure that all he needs is some rest, and sleep, a-and..."

Tiredly, Denethor raised a hand, quelling the nonsense spilling out of the stammering Ranger. Watching the dark stranger stand in the middle of the House of Healing like the useless lump of an imposter that he was, Denethor could only feel gladness at the fact that Mithrandir wasn't there to witness this problem. _Thank the Valar for __**small**__ mercies._ For a brief moment, he felt a surge of pure loathing for the dark stranger and all the trouble he brought. If only he could set his interrogators on him! The faintest hint of his intention to do so, however, had nearly resulted in the destruction of delicate balance of power Denethor was currently fighting to maintain. The crow traveler's unproven healing powers, along with the Rangers' conviction of his innate goodness as well as Mithrandir breathing down his neck trying to whisk the man away as quickly as possible, limited his power in the most infuriating way. Once more, he stifled the wholly inappropriate urge to bury his head in his hands and groan. Was it too much to ask that the man would show a modicum of talent after all that Denethor had said to Mithrandir in his temper tantrum?

"Milord?" The voice of Mormeg, Denethor's valet, was calm and neutral, though a hint of disapproval lurked in his eyes. "There is much work awaiting your attention at the Tower."

And yet again did his responsibilities as the Steward clash with his private affairs; Denethor felt his headache increase exponentially at the thought of all that he still had to do. Motioning curtly towards the guards, he snapped out, "Take him back to the Tower and put him in a guestroom. Grant him any amenities he asks for, but do not let him out of your sight. And as for you," with an effort, he kept himself from glaring at the trouble-making Rangers, "return to the Tower with the _crow-traveler; _should any problem arise, on your head be it. Keep your speculations to yourself; talk to no one, _no one, _about this man."Without waiting for their assent, he turned and strode back to his carriage, Mormeg scurrying behind him.

Settling down onto the carriage seat, he sighed softly as the horses began to wend their way along the cobbled streets of Minas Tirith. Not for the first time, Denethor wished fervently that his erratic gift of Sight had thought to warn him of this mess; though at this stage, he didn't even need his gift to predict what would happen next. People's memories were short; already, they seemed to have forgotten the unpleasantness of the failed coup and turned their attention to worries closer to home. Denethor was well aware of how desperate many in his city were for a hint, _any _hint, that the King would return to them, especially now when darkness was slowly making its way felt through the land. The _crow-traveler _had come at the worst possible time; the dark omens which Mithrandir had spoken of – dark winds sweeping out from Mordor, increased Orc attacks and Nazgul sightings, mass Crebain nesting within the countryside – had only made the people's fear even more acute in the past few weeks, and they would be eager to welcome hope into the city. It was only a matter of time before rumors of the _crow-traveler_ and his claim to kingship leaked out; news of that magnitude would be impossible to keep quiet, especially since it involved _Mithrandir_, of all people.

The wizard was viewed with fearful curiosity by the populace; gossip ran rampant about what powers he possessed, how old he really was, where he'd disappeared to in the years he'd shunned Minas Tirith..._everything _about Mithrandir fascinated them. Denethor's public hostility against him only made his presence all the more interesting; their loud fights about Finduilas and the wizard's quest were common knowledge by now. As it was, stories about the ruckus Mithrandir and the Rangers had made outside the city gates were already spreading fast; as Denethor's carriage rumbled along, snatches of conversation drifted in through the carriage windows.

"...let those crows into the city, don't know what they're playing at..."

"...stormed through in a temper, nearly knocked over my wares..."

"...dark hair and sallow skin. He's a foreigner through and through..."

"...dragging a Ranger along! Suspicious characters, the whole lot of them..."

"...was guarding the gates, and said that he'd never felt so scared in his _life..._"

"...might just be seeking shelter, what with the Orc attacks these days..."

"...ask me, the wizard is _dangerous_, something feels really off about him..."

Denethor tensed involuntarily at the last snippet. _I hadn't thought that anyone else had noticed. _Public speculations were, more often than not, seven parts false and three parts exaggerated truth, but on the subject of Mithrandir, he was currently inclined to agree wholeheartedly with any and all of their complaints; it was nothing less than what he'd observed over the past few days of fighting over the issue of the _crow-traveler_.

Something was _wrong_ with the wizard. Badly wrong. Denethor had initially dismissed his disquiet, chalking it up to the long years which had passed since Mithrandir had visited Minas Tirith; it was only natural that they'd all changed, after all. But he'd soon come to realize that there was a strange...damaged feeling...about his erstwhile ally. Mithrandir was tired all the time and needed constant rest. He was much more easily distracted, frequently drifting away from the conversation with a faraway look on his face which suggested that he was not quite all _there_. Their last confrontation had been the most lively he'd seen the wizard so far, and even then, it appeared that he'd lost some of his adeptness at verbal sparring. Denethor still remembered the explosive arguments they had frequently engaged in when he was younger; Finduilas had been in constant despair over their inability to make peace. Their fights now were but a poor imitation; it was quite clear that Mithrandir could no longer match wits as well as he had, though he still managed to irritate Denethor just fine. Indeed, Mithrandir's crude attempts at argument made Denethor even _more _irritated; that he'd believed he could order the Steward of Minas Tirith around when he was so clearly outclassed, that he believed he was _superior _to Denethor even in his weakened state was utterly infuriating. But the worst issue by far, the one which kept Denethor wary and hostile, was the lack of control Mithrandir had over his temper.

The wizard had always been an easily-provoked individual, but he'd been careful to express his grievances using mostly his words; he was always more eager to befriend people rather than intimidate them. He'd rarely stooped to physical violence, unless he was dealing with enemies, and he certainly, most _certainly_, had refrained from using his powers to bully those weaker than he. And yet, Denethor had personally witnessed him dragging around a hapless Ranger and fain near breaking his shoulder, as well as unleashing his power in _public_, thereby threatening not just the _crow-traveler, _but the Rangers, the city gate guards and Denethor himself. The Mithrandir of old would never have done that; he would have been much careful. His powers now...Denethor shuddered inwardly to remember the terrifying feeling of it lashing about, seemingly eager to destroy anything in its path. They were still _his _powers, but they were bruised. Damaged. ..._Frightening_. Too wild, too fiery, too uncontrolled. Denethor shuddered again. He'd initially desired that Mithrandir use that power to aid Finduilas, but now...he did not want it anywhere near his wife. He could not trust that it would not damage her further rather that heal her.

Reluctantly, he put aside his worry about the wizard as the carriage pulled up at the Tower entrance. Ignoring his valet's fretful chivvying, he walked unhurriedly towards the Tower Hall, stiffly nodding at the people he passed along the way. _It would be wise to start planning out how to deal with them all once the news breaks out._

There strode Councilor Gycan, chastising his sulky-looking son for some perceived misdemeanor. Sly and ambitious, he'd barely escaped from being sent into exile with the other masterminds of Halen's failed coup. That he still held his head high and remained an influential councilor was testament to his silver tongue and the strength of his political sway over the other council members. Once news of the _crow-traveler _broke out, he would be seeking to use him to further his own interests, and perhaps even decide to set up another coup to make the _crow-traveler _his puppet king. Denethor made a mental note to watch out for him.

Further on slouched Councilor Yraen, smiling teasingly at a flustered chambermaid. Incorrigible flirt though he may be, his unquestioning loyalty to Denethor had been proven time and again; it was thanks to him and his skill at smoothing things over with his easy charm and ready grin that the reins of power still remained firmly in Denethor's hands, despite the power void left by sudden mass exodus of traitorous councilors. He would be a useful pillar of support and fount of information in the future.

Councilor Bleon and Councilor Moran were side-by-side, heads bent over a sheaf of papers. The long shadows cast by the large pillar beside them were not enough to hide how Councilor Bleon's eyes narrowed resentfully upon seeing Denethor. Though eventually found innocent and released from his incarceration, the proud councilor was still seething over the indignities he'd been forced to suffer during his arrest as a suspected collaborator of the coup. Denethor was still in the process of appeasing his anger; he was going to have to find a quicker way of re-securing his firm support. Level-headed Councilor Moran would be a welcome help in this; as an old friend of Councilor Bleon, he knew well how to mollify Bleon and his temper.

In some ways, Denethor knew that the failed coup had been a blessing in disguise, as it had given him the excuse to crack down hard upon the growing dissent within the council and bring about its drastic reformation. The current chaos was but an expected part of such a large power transition, and had everything gone as planned, it would have taken only a few months more for the dust to settle and for the strength of the new council to reassert itself. But now, Denethor was finding the careful maneuvering he'd been doing increasingly difficult to handle, what with the appearance of the _crow-traveler, _the instability of Mithrandir and most importantly, Finduilas' illness to contend with.

Denethor's face darkened at that thought, his mind brought back to the worry which lurked constantly at the back of his mind. Grimly, he squelched the urge to visit Finduilas' sickroom and check on her again. The maidservants would have told him if anything had happened; it would do no one good for the ruler of Gondor to be incapacitated by his sorrow over his wife. However, as he held court in the Tower Hall, careful to keep his distraction from showing on his face, his mind repeatedly returned to the problem at hand.

Finduilas was dying. In the months leading up to Mithrandir's and the _crow-traveler's _arrival, Denethor had been forced to watch helplessly as she deteriorated, to see her face grow paler and her body thinner, to hear her once-sweet voice turn hoarse and broken by hacking coughs. He had suffered and mourned the injustice of being unable to ease her suffering and heal her pains. He had been resigned to his helplessness...until now. Mithrandir and the _crow-traveler _both constituted worrying threats to the city; by all rights, Denethor should drive them away from his city as quickly as possible. The best, the easiest, the most logical path to take was to give the _crow-traveler _to Mithrandir; the thrice-be-damned stranger could then be Mithrandir's problem to deal with, and Denethor could hold that favor over the wizard's head. Once they were gone, the rumors would be so much easier to squelch, the councilors so much easier to handle, and he could get on with his efforts at strengthening the city. But to do that was to ignore the fact that he was not just the Steward of Gondor, but also a man with a family, with a beloved wife and two young sons. He had grown up knowing that his private life would always have to come second to the well-being of the city; even now, he knew that should Mithrandir and the _crow-traveler _manifest any clear threat to the city, he would send them away without hesitation. But so long as there was a chance that his concerns would remain unfounded suspicions, he would not act rashly. Not when his wife's life was at stake, not when they were Finduilas' two best chances for survival.

To be sure, they were by no means reliable characters; one an unstable wizard of frightening power, another a suspicious imposter of unknown skills, it was all too likely that they might hinder rather than help in his wife's recovery. And yet, they were better than nothing; Denethor could not let any chance, however slim, slip out of his grasp just yet.

All he had to do now was find out more information about them.

All he had to do now...was consult the palantir.


End file.
